


Together

by WaitingForTheMoon2



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-03 19:45:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 28,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14003334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingForTheMoon2/pseuds/WaitingForTheMoon2
Summary: Together, Jon Snow and Daenerys sail from Dragonstone to Winterfell as the Army of the Dead looms north. Unsure of the path ahead, Jon and Dany plunge headlong into a love that will either destroy themselves or save the realm."It was the thought of her eyes and the empty feeling in his chest that finally drove him to knock. He cursed himself, you're a fool and a bastard. He let out a heaping breath. Almost as though she'd been waiting for him, Daenerys swung the wooden door open and met Jon's gaze, her lavender eyes already searching for the same answers. She let the door swing further open, wordlessly inviting him into her bedchamber. At that moment, the craven left Jon as he stepped towards her: the woman who held his missing pieces. He grabbed ahold of the iron-laced door and closed it, his gaze unbroken with hers."





	1. Together

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally on AO3! Together is my first foray into FanFic. It first started as a one shot, but quickly evolved into where season seven left off. I'm a big fan of both ASOIAF and GOT and have incorporated a few tin-foils into this story which I'm having fun with. Anyway, enjoy and please leave feedback if you'd like. 
> 
> Thanks for taking the time to read!

JON

How long he had lingered outside the door, he did not know. Never in his life had Jon Snow been called craven, but at this moment he felt as though the life's blood were draining from his head, leaving him dizzy. He extended his ungloved hand, it hovered in front of the sigil of the curled, three-headed dragon but it was no use-- he could not muster the courage to knock. He had thought he had known this feeling before, a lifetime ago now it seemed. Beyond The Wall love had nearly destroyed him. Broken vows and a ravenous lust drove him into the arms of the wildling woman kissed by fire, but here, now, he could not put to word what drove him to pace in front of Daenerys Stormborn's door. Months ago he had come ashore on Dragonstone unaware of what waited for him. It was said the Dragon Queen was fierce and beautiful, yet instead of finding the cruel foreign indaver the Northern Lords warned him of, he discovered something much more terrifying. Though he did not understand it, he discovered a piece of him reflected in the Dragon Queen's lavender eyes. The realization left him cold.

The first night while hosted at Dragonstone he dreamt of a great dragon-- a three-headed behemoth not unlike the sigil of House Targaryen. Jon stood atop a cliff where below green waves smashed into jagged gray rock. Soon the dragon turned towards Jon, its heads gnashing and snarling, its great wings the length of two warships end to end. The throats of the beast began to glow with a terrible red light, and although Jon knew what was coming, he couldn't bring himself move from where he stood. Jon braced himself as the fire began to envelop and swirl around him, but he discovered it was cool to the touch. He ungloved his hand and outstretched it, letting the flames run through his fingers as though it were a mountain stream. After the dragonfire ceased Jon woke with a start and drenched in cold sweat. The next morning when he had gone down to break his fast, the queen was markedly absent and he remembered what he saw in her eyes in the throne room the day before. The hole he felt in his chest grew larger, and Jon grew uneasy. Though his days were productive, at night the dreams continued and made him restless. Each morning he awoke tired. As the weeks wore on atop the cliffs of Dragonstone, he understood what was happening to him and he could no longer ignore it. Daenerys Stormborn was the one to fill the emptiness inside him. And the emptiness had become too much to bear.

It was the thought of her eyes and the empty feeling in his chest that finally drove him to knock. He cursed himself, you're a fool and a bastard. He let out a heaping breath. Almost as though she'd been waiting for him, Daenerys swung the wooden door open and met Jon's gaze, her lavender eyes already searching for the same answers. She let the door swing further open, wordlessly inviting him into her bedchamber. At that moment, the craven left Jon as he stepped towards her: the woman who held his missing pieces. He grabbed ahold of the iron-laced door and closed it, his gaze unbroken with hers.

"Jon," Daenerys began, but stopped short, realizing nothing more had to be said between them in this moment. The answers to so many unspoken questions they found in the pool of each other's eyes. Jon grabbed onto the small of her back and pulled her close. He could feel her short, stuttered breaths. She is trembling. His free hand moved almost instinctively to her face, cupping her braids in his rough, calloused palm. She was burning. The blood of the dragon, thought Jon. Their bodies broke the tangible silence, and Daenerys and Jon crashed into each other. Her mouth was sweet with the taste of wine, her lips full and supple. Daenerys sent frantic, searching hands down the length of his chest and stomach, looking to undo the clasps on his leather gambeson. Jon met her hands with his, guiding them as she undid each with a tempered fervor. He laid a kiss on her neck, leaving a trail of them as she continued to undo his tunic until his chest was finally exposed to the flickering candlelight. She stopped for a moment, her wide eyes meeting the scars that littered the expanse of his torso. Jon wondered what she was thinking. She began to kiss them, the fleshy wounds scattered over Jon's chest and abdomen. Her hands clung onto the sides of his muscled torso. One by one, she ran her mouth over his wounds as though to heal them and by doing so healing the hole that had metastasized in Jon.

After she had kissed them all, she straightened herself, but Jon had already found the clasps of her dress and began undoing them. It fell around her in a cascade of black, her round breasts laid bare for Jon. Once more their mouths found each other, their kisses had become more panicked and hungry, as if trying to outrun the tragedy they know almost certainly awaited them. Tangled together, they found their way to the feather bed and Jon gently pushed the queen onto it. She smiled as she landed on her back, her silver hair curled around her face like the tail of the great dragon. Jon slid the rest of his tunic from his shoulders and turned his attention towards the remaining underclothes that still imprisoned Daenerys. He wanted to look at her. All of her. With both hands he tugged her underskirt from around her waist and tossed it to the floor, all the while their gaze never parting.

Jon pulled his boots off and unlaced his trousers with a measured intensity. Daenerys had reclined on her elbows, languidly drinking in each heave of Jon's chest, each curl of shadow black hair that fell around his face as he undressed himself. Finally, bare as his name day, Jon crept atop of Daenerys Stormborn. Straddling her, he took a breast into his mouth and felt Daenerys resign herself to him, collapsing into the oblivion. Surrender. With a single exploring hand, Jon felt his way over Daenerys taut stomach and towards the wetness between her thighs. He entered her with his fingers to which she responded with a breathless groan, her head rolled back in ecstasy. Dany pulled Jon's mouth to hers. Both feverish and possessive. A sense of urgency had overcome them. In a single, swift motion, Jon pulled himself atop Daenerys, and with his knee pushed her thigh aside and entered her.

Rhythmically, hungrily, Dany pressed him hard against her, pulling him deeper inside. Two waves from separate storms crashing against each other. All the while, Jon could not bring himself to stop putting his lips against hers, couldn't stop wanting to taste her. Suddenly, however, and without warning, Jon pulled away from Daenerys. Her lips were red and swollen, her hair tousled and mussed, but she had never looked more beautiful than she did at that moment and Jon wanted to make sure it was all real. Still hard and inside her, he let out a heaving sigh and searched her face. Eyes locked onto each others, they finally understood: everything they had undergone had brought them to this moment. Overcome with the realization, Jon plunged back into the fire.

It was Daenerys who came first, but the thought of her experiencing such pleasure at his own doing sent Jon headlong into a release he didn't think possible. Trembling and glistening with sweat, he slid down off her, and brought her to rest on his chest. He did not know how long they laid there in silence, but he knew what she was thinking and a sadness overcame him. They were heading into what was almost certain death and neither of them could afford to abandon duty for the sake of love. Yet here they were, Jon Snow and Daenerys Stormborn, overcome and exhausted from the release of what seemed like a lifetime of searching for each other. The old gods are cruel.

"Dany," Jon whispered quietly into the fading light of the cabin.

"Jon," Dany replied, her head still pressed against the rise and fall of his chest.

"I don't pretend to know what will happen when we dock, or when the dead will come for us, but I do know that I am yours. Forever." Dany pulled herself from off his chest, once again looking deep into his brown eyes.

"I am yours, Jon Snow. Forever." She leaned into kiss him but felt herself overwhelmed. Overwhelmed at the task ahead, overwhelmed at losing Viserion, but most of all overwhelmed by the unknown and what it might bring. Perhaps it would bring Jon atop a funeral pyre. Perhaps it would bring children and laughter. Still holding her mouth to his, she began to cry. Holding her head in both his hands, Jon pulled her mouth away from his.

"Your Grace, you are..." He trailed off, searching for the right words to attach to what he felt, but he could not. She was right to cry. She was right to fear. And so he said nothing and held her against him, letting her tears stream down her face and onto his chest. Finally finding his resolve, Jon lifted Daenerys chin between his thumb and finger, and turned it upwards towards him. "Your Grace, my entire life has led me to you. To this moment. Whatever happens, you must know you have made me whole."


	2. Destiny

TYRION

Alone in his dimly lit cabin, Tyrion poured himself a goblet of Arbor red. And then another. And another. Head swimming, he found his way to a chair and there he sat with his head between his hands until a soft rap at the door dislodged him from the fog. He discovered Varys on the other side clad in a silk lavender robe, his hands clasped together in front of his bulk, and a wry smile that had slid across his face.

"My Lord, forgive the late hour, but sleep does not come easy at sea for me."

"Nor, I." Tyrion reached out to steady himself on the doorway, but his hand missed, and lurched forward into the perfumed eunuch.

"My Lord, has been enjoying the ample supply of Arbor red I see." Varys gathered up the swaying Lord of Lannister and herded him towards a cushioned chair.

"How astute of you to notice, Lord Varys. Will you join me in a toast?"

"To what are we toasting, my Lord?" Tyrion reached across himself and pulled his goblet off the bureau, slopping some red on his lap. A grin spread across his face, though Varys continued to look perplexed and intrigued.

"Our great Northern alliance!" Tyrion toasted Varys, gulped what was left in his goblet and wiped the spittle from his chin with the back of his hand. Varys wordlessly eyes him. "The Masters of Whispers does not know?" Tyrion let out a booming, condescending laugh. He knows, the Spider always knows. After all, he is here.

"My Lord, if I may," Varys edged closer to Tyrion in his seat and grabbed the goblet from his hand. He cleared his throat. "If you're attempting to ask me about what to do with our two lovers, I'm afraid you'll find no solution from me."

Tyrion balked. "Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty."

"Be that as it may," the Spider began, "they are the song of ice and fire."

"I wasn't aware you worshipped the Lord of Light, dear Varys. Or heeded prophecy."

"I heed the word of no god, my Lord, but I do heed the word of our Queen." This gave Tyrion pause. "She has chosen Jon Snow."

"And we promised to check her worst impulses." He stood from his chair and began to pace across the swaying cabin.

"And you believe this is one of our Queen's worst impulses?" Varys looked thoughtfully after Tyrion, studying him intently. Tyrion did not know how to answer that. He had admired Jon Snow from the moment they met in the courtyard at Winterfell. Had seen such promise. But now... In so many words, Dany had proclaimed in front of her entire small council that she wished to be with Jon Snow. We sail together, she had said. Together, and at what cost? The firelight had dimmed, and shadows distorted his face as he continued his pacing.

"Yes," he sighed.

"Why?" demanded Varys. "An alliance with the North makes sense. It won't be achieved without difficulty, of that I am quite assured, but a Stark and a Targaryen... "

"We've already seen what happened when a Targaryen fell in love with a Stark. The kingdom came crashing down. We are still tumbling headlong," Tyrion snapped.

"Rhaegar and Lyanna." Varys shifted uncomfortably. The ghosts of the two lingered in the air for a moment, filling the room with a pregnant silence.

"Rhaegar and Lyanna," Tyrion repeated. "Do you think the North is like to forget what the Targaryen's did to their greatest House?" The North Remembers.

"Their King in the North has, why shouldn't his bannermen follow?"

"Why did you come here, Varys?" Tyrion interjected. He stared at the Spider with great intent, demanding an answer. He knew the Spider and it was unlike him to let such recklessness go unmatched without a plan to counterbalance it all.

"Only to tell you this: You've heard the story of how the three dragons came to be. One is now dead. I believe our Queen may be able to get with child now." He's thinking about the damn succession.

"Ah, yes, the maegi." Tyrion countered skeptically.

"The maegi who killed the Khal, and traded the life of he and Daenerys' son for those of the dragons." Rhaego. "My Lord, I know my limitations. My life has been meticulously made of my own volition. This is something beyond our control." Varys stood and moved towards the door.

"We cannot afford distraction." Tyrion rounded as Varys flowed past him, leaving the scent of lavender in his wake. "Jon is a good man. An honorable match for Daenerys. But you saw when she left for beyond The Wall with three dragons and returned with two. Would you have everything she sacrificed turn to dust? All for naught?"

Varys paused and turned towards Lord Tyrion. "No, My Lord, I would not have it all for naught. But I wouldn't call it distraction." That wry smile bloomed across his face once more.

"What then would you call it, Lord Varys?"

"Destiny, my Lord. I would call it destiny." With a brusque bow, Varys swept from the doorway and back down the hall towards his own cabin, leaving Tyrion alone with the weight of it all.


	3. Promise

JON

Jon woke to the sound of lapping ocean waves, creaking wood and a crackling brazier. It took but a moment to gather his surroundings. Curled next to him was the form of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, naked as her name day, her silver braids undone. Do not wake a sleeping dragon. The gods are cruel to wake me so soon after that dream. Let them be kinder to her. He pulled the furs over her shoulder and slid from the bed the two of them had shared all night. Someone had already come to light the brazier and laid a tray of bread, honey and a jug of pomegranate juice on the small table. Thankful for the drink, he poured himself a mug, but couldn't stomach the food just yet. He stood looking around the cabin, aglow with the golden light of the rising dawn. And now? Jon had been so sure last night, but now... doubt began to spread across his mind like a poison. The words Maester Aemon said to him still rang clear as the day he had said them: Did you ever wonder why the men of the Night's Watch take no wives and father no children? Ever a green boy, Jon was only half-listening. If only he had listened. Love is the death of duty. Aemon Targaryen had seen much, and had sacrificed much. He watched as his House vanished like the Valyria of old-- swallowed whole by the Doom. But so had Jon. He watched as his own family, like the flame of a candle, had been extinguished one by one. He had loved great and lost as much. But the dreams, he thought. The dreams ceased to be last night. I slept and I woke with naught in between. The dream had been Dany. Jon wished he knew what this meant but before he could brood over his cup further, Daenerys began to stir.

Her amethyst eyes opened slowly and found Jon. She propped herself up, leaning back on her elbows as she did last night, baring her breasts. "Good morrow," she said quietly.

"Good morrow," Jon answered, grinning. "How did Your Grace fare?"

"She fared well." A coy smile blossomed across her face. Jon sat his cup down on the table, made his way to the bed and sat at the edge. Dany sat up further, not bothering to cover herself. "And you, My Lord? How did the King in the North fare?" Jon pulled Dany to him, her body still warm from the night's sleep. Or, perhaps she is always this warm. The Blood of the Dragon. He kissed the length of neck softly and pulled his head back up, their eyes meeting. Jon was used to seeing Dany garbed in black robes, and with her hair pulled back in elaborate braiding. This morning, however, her silver hair cascaded down her back in loose curls, garbed in naught but her own skin. Jon needed no more convincing than that. He took her head in his hands and kissed her, gentler than the crashing ones the night before. His hand had wandered down between her thighs...

"I am yours, Jon, " she whispered into his ear. His name on her lips. Jon. He slid further onto the bed and drew her down onto his lap. Dany let out a breathless gasp as she sat on the length of him.

Glistening with sweat and chest heaving, Dany slid off Jon's lap and off the bed, silently padding to the jug of pomegranate juice. Jon watched her in silence. The dream is real. The morning's haze had worn off and Jon could see clearly, and there was no other way forward: He could not live without this woman by his side-- no matter the costs-- and the costs were grave and nothing was certain. It was still a fortnight until they would make port at White Harbor, and another few days beyond that on the King's Road to Winterfell. If Winterfell still stood by the time they arrived. There was no guarantee. Jon forced this aside. Not now. Not now while we still have time. The comfortable silence was truncated by a few quick raps at the door. Jon glanced at Dany, but she put her hand up, gesturing that it was alright. 

"My Queen," Missandei spoke through the door, "I have drawn your bath." Dany swung the door open and in High Valyrian answered the hand maid. Missandei's eyes found Jon on the bed, but averted them, casting her gaze to the floor instead. Dany smiled at that.

"You know I hide nothing from you." Blushing, Missandei nodded and turned on her heels.

"That solves that." Dany said, reaching for the Targaryen red robe slung over the back of a chair. She pulled it on and cinched it at her waist. The material was thin and smooth. Jon found his way off the bed, wanting to feel her body in such a garment. He reached out and grabbed the width of her hips with both hands, pulling her close.

"What's that," he asked warmly, a boyish grin growing across his face.

"This," Dany nodded, eyeing Jon up and down the length of his body. "Us. Together."

Jon laughed and kissed her on the forehead. "Aye. Together."

Dany left the cabin to bathe, leaving Jon behind. As he pulled his trousers on, he glimpsed himself in a small mirror that perched atop Dany's bureau. His hair fell in tight curls around his face. A face so unlike anyone he had ever known back in Winterfell. His mind began to wander to his mother. Beyond the Wall, Berric had quipped that he must have taken after his mother. My mother. Did she know that her son would be King in the North one day? Sometimes she came to him in his dreams. Her hair was long and dark, but her face shrouded in shadow. Often she would reach out to him, but something unseen always stopped him from meeting her. Often she wept in his dreams, but every now and again he could tell she was smiling. I promise. He remembered the final words his Lord father spoke before they parted for good.


	4. Bastard

TYRION

Tyrion's legs almost gave way as he departed the ship. It had been a fortnight since last he was on dry land, and although a fresh snow powder covered it, he was glad to walk upon solid land nonetheless. The Hand was overseeing the Queen's northbound caravan to completion: destriers, mules, garrons, wagons, foodstuffs, encampment supplies. Most importantly the crates of dragonglass. The massive operation took two hundred Unsullied working round the clock. Despite the clarity of the mission, and the fast approaching audience with Lord Manderly, Tyrion's mind wandered. In just a day's time they would meet the Dothraki army along the King's road, just a few more beyond that they would begin the political battle for the Northern Lords allegiance. Still, Tyrion's mind lay shrouded in a thick haze. 

"A fine job, Lord Hand," the flea bottom accent took him by surprise, as Ser Davos approached.

"Easy enough when others do all the heavy lifting," Tyrion ducked underneath a large wooden crate being carried by a pair of Unsullied. I am in no mood to trade japes with the Onion Knight.

"My Lord, The King In The North would like a word, if it please you."

"It so happens that at the moment it does not please me, Ser Davos. You can see I am a busy man." Tyrion continued to walk around the ordered chaos, unable to shake Ser Davos. Aboard the ship he had hardly stirred from his cabin-- or his wineskin-- save for council meetings. Together with the others, Tyrion had planned every moment of their Northward journey, and memorized every lord and lordling, but had failed to address what was truly on everyone's mind: The Bastard who was now sharing a bed with the Queen. 

"His Grace says it will take but a minute of your time." Tyrion heaved a huge sigh. He knew the time had come to face Jon. Wordlessly he raised an eyebrow at Ser Davos and gestured for the Onion Knight to lead the way. They came upon Jon fastening a breastplate and readying a great black garron. Longclaw at his side, his curly onyx hair pulled back away from his face and clad in boiled leather. Tyrion had to admit he looked regal even as he was brooding. And he brooded often. Jon saw them approach and turned, his face hardened, and sheet white. Something is amiss.

"Your Grace," Tyrion nodded curtly.

"Lord Tyrion." Jon shifted his weight uncomfortably and exchanged nervous glances with Ser Davos.

"Best get on with it, lad," Ser Davos suggested.

"Ser, Your Grace, this is a poor attempt at delivering whatever news you have to offer. I suggest getting on with it. We will all feel much better. Lord Manderly expects us soon. Our first Northern test." Jon tugged at his armor and smoothed a few wisps of black curls out of his face.

"Her Graces' moonblood is two weeks late. It is likely that Daenerys is pregnant. With my child." Definitely not better. Not better at all.

"Where is her Grace?" Tyrion asked, eyeing Jon Snow with a quiet rage.

"I don't know." Jon may be a Northern fool, but a dishonest fool he was not.

"When last did you see her?" Tyrion began to look around the forming caravan. It would be ready soon and Dany was missing... 

"This morning. When she..." Jon trailed off. Spit it out you, bastard.

"When she what," Tyrion demanded.

"Took off on Drogon. Not but two hours past." The dragons had made many journeys across the open seas. Over the Narrow Sea to Dragonstone, over the Summer Sea and through Slaver's Bay. They were seasoned hunters on the water, and could cover hundreds of miles in a single day. They never failed to circle back to their mother, however. Mhysa. Tyrion wasn't worried about losing the Queen. Finding a Dothraki horde would be easy enough in the air. But at best she was a stranger to the North and at worst a hostile foreign invader. Despite the fact that Jon had sent word to Lady Stark that he had successfully bent the knee, they could not guarantee her safety. And now she was carrying a child. Tyrion searched his mind for answers, but experience told him how difficult tracking dragons was.

"And no one thought of telling The Hand of the Queen that the Queen had taken off?" Jon began to speak but Davos interrupted him.

"His Grace has been... processing information, my Lord. We meant no offense."

"She'll come back," Jon said assuredly.

"You'd better hope she does. It's your bastard in her belly." With that, Tyrion turned and went back to his caravan duties, the word bastard hanging over him like a storm cloud.


	5. Armor

JON

Jon bent over and retched, though naught but bile had come up. He had taken nothing for breakfast. His head swam.

"Take this, lad." Ser Davos handed over his wineskin to which Jon eyed suspiciously. "Boiled water with lemon. Stannis swore by it." Jon grabbed it, swished a mouthful about and spit it out. He did not expect the news to go over well with Tyrion, but he did not expect the dagger which he wielded so easily: Bastard. From the that time his Lord father told him that Old Nan's stories of babies being gifts from gods were shite and that men and women made them together, Jon swore he would never father a bastard. When he joined the Night's Watch, his Uncle Benjen tried to explain what Jon would be giving up. That if he knew what it meant, he might think twice before swearing vows and oaths. And then Ygritte happened. But the wildling women had their own methods of keeping men's seed from quickening in their bellies, and Ygritte had never gotten with child. If she had, he would have taken her as a wife for true and remained a turncloack for the rest of his days.

That morning Jon woke as he had for the past fortnight: holding Dany. They had made love, and broke their fast on honeyed and buttered bread and juice as they did every morning. Both anxious about the impending landfall, but both assured of the course ahead. Together. Dany had not left Jon's sight for longer than an hour aboard the ship, but when Daenerys had come back from Missandei's cabin that morning Jon could sense that something had gone off course. Dany sat down at the edge of their bed, looking as though the life's blood had drained from her. She looks half a wight herself.

"Dany?" Jon asked, searching the Queen's face for any sign. Was it grief? The moments she sat in silence with her hands folded in her lap took up too much space, and Jon began to feel suffocated. "Dany, please..."

"My moonsblood," she began in almost a whisper. "I've missed it by a fortnight." Anything but this. Anything.

"You're certain?"

"I am certain. Maester Pylos confirmed as much." The maegi, the dragons, the Khal. Dany had told Jon more than once that she was unable to bear children. Jon could think of no worse time to bring a child into the world. I should have said something. Something to comfort her. A Northern fool. When they made landfall, he watched in silence as Dany crept atop Drogon and took off into the white Northern morning. He watched as she flew over the walled city, and North towards White Knife. Watched as she grew smaller and smaller on the horizon. Landfall had brought forth new orders but he could not stop his mind from wandering to the tiny quickened seed in her belly. My child. My bastard child.

Jon pulled on his gloves and climbed atop his garron, Ser Davos by his side. To the West a storm cloud was forming, and he knew that snowfall would slow their journey. Muddied roads, broken wagon spokes, grazing land diminished for the Dothraki riders. They had to push forward. He could see the front column of the caravan begin to move out, and he searched the sky for any sign of dragon but naught could be found. It was time for Daenery's Council to meet with Lord Manderly. He lingered to watch as the small Targaryen fleet that had ferried them to White Harbor bobbed in the rough gray sea, and watched as the port grew smaller and smaller as he parted the bulk of the column and made way towards New Castle. Had Jon ever been happier than when he was aboard that ship? The cave and Ygritte's naked body swam forward in his mind, but that had been a lustful, volatile, and boyish love. Kill the boy and let the man be born. The boy had died and had risen as King in the North. Beyond the Wall Beric Dondarrion had spoken of the many times he had been resurrected by R'hllor, and that with each death a piece of him vanished in the darkness. Like grasping for smoke. Jon had been acutely aware of his missing piece after Lady Melisandre resurrected him. To his surprise he had found it in the most unlikely of places: In Daenerys Stormborn. And now she was carrying his child.

"Your Grace," a repentant, and all too familiar voice rode up behind him. Lord Tyrion.

"Lord Hand," Jon nodded in acknowledgement. Tyrion was riding a great palomino garron, and clad for the first time in Targaryen red and black. The silver Hand of the Queen fastened to a fur cape.

"I had forgotten what it's like to piss in the North," Tyrion said, strapped into the saddle he once had shown Jon on their way to the Wall those many years ago. "A great production with steam rising all around. Like making an entrance in some mummer's sorcery show."

"Aye," Jon had no choice but to laugh. "My Brother Robb used to call it his dragon's breath."

"Who knew Northmen could be so droll?" Tyrion said sarcastically.

"We've honed our humor over thousands of long winter nights," Jon said smiling.

"Humor and the ability to sire offspring, it appears." No sooner than it appeared did Jon's smile vanish. "I," Tyrion trailed off, as if in search for the right words. Jon had not known the man to be without them for any length of time. "I apologize. In fact that's why I came. I came to apologize." They rode in silence for a moments longer. "It was wrong of me to wield such a word." Bastard. Jon had been cloaked in the word since birth.

"I thank you for that. But I am well armored," Jon grinned at Tyrion. Hoping the dwarf would remember.

"Ah," he smiled back. "Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you."

"Aye. That's it."

"You are too likeable, Jon Snow. You look too good brooding. You swing that great sword of yours too well. And now you've done what no man has ever done."

"What's that, my lord?"

"You've won the heart of Daenerys Targaryen."

"There have been others. The Khal."

"Yes, the Khal. But she was sold to him. You she chose." Tyrion gave Jon a thoughtful smile, and spurred his horse onward.


	6. Unbroken

TYRION

The road up the hill upon which New Castle sat was winding and paved with Northmen attempting to flee the winter winds. Where will they all go? Perhaps this is where the whores go after all. Is this where you sent her, Father? The bloody North. Tysha had seemed so long ago now. And his father. And the crossbow bolt. And the thud. The small company climbed ever upwards astride their garons, filing past hundreds of smallfolk clad in rough spun. The lucky ones wrapped in matted fur. Snow began to fall.

The band approached the gates of New Castle, where soldiers loomed above the battlements with bows knocked.

"State your purpose!"

"I am Tyrion Lannister, of House Lannister. Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen first of her name. I am come with a small litter to treat with Lord Wyman Manderly." Tyrion was met with silence until the great wooden portcullis of New Castle began to rise. Tyrion led his garron inside the castle walls and into a large yard where they were met by the rotund Maester Theomore, formerly of House Lannister before he came into the service of the Citadel.

"My Lords, welcome. You must have a great thirst after such a perilous journey. Winter seas bring ill-fate to many, I am afraid. Trust me when I say I am glad to see your host in tact," Maester Theobold craned his neck to survey those who had arrived with Tyrion. His great chain clinked and chimed as he approached Tyrion who had climbed from his horst. "Ah, but I see we are without Her Grace." The Maester tutted.

"Her Grace enjoys other modes of transportation," Tyrion said as he straightened his furs, glancing at Jon who had fallen into place beside him. "Rest assured that she will not keep Lord Manderly long. This here, however, is Lord Snow of Winterfell, natural son of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North." Jon gave Maester Theomore a curt nod, his expression utterly unreadable. Maester Theomore gave Jon a brusque bow. If he is surprised he does not show it.

Maester Theomore ushered them across the busy yard where no doubt winter preparations were underway. Wayns piled high with sacks of grain and other food stores being led this way and that. It ought to be filled with Valyrian steel. New Castle was a grand keep perched atop the largest hill in White Harbor, made rich by its deep ports and trading industries. The wealth of House Manderly was on display to all who entered: Tapestries and murals depicting scenes of teeming ocean life and Mermen men defending their home from corsairs led the way to the great hall. Manderly men with their tridents and blue-green cloaks seemed to be ants swarming. The entire Merman court must be in attendance today. No doubt to glimpse our Queen. High born men and women clung to to the sides of the great hall and curiously eyed the lot as they strode past. Ah, there's some ferret-faced Frey, no doubt. And there he is, the great Lord of White Harbor.

On the dais before them sat Wyman Manderly, their first Northern test. His chair was special made to accommodate his great girth, and his chins wobbled in anticipation. His blue eyes were not focused on Tyrion, however, but on the man next to him: Jon. The heralds escorting the host announced Tyrion, Varys, Jon and Davos to the court and silence befell the hall.

"The kinslayer and his merry band," Lord Manderly guffawed. "Tell me true, Lord Hand, does your Dragon Queen bathe in the of her enemies once a moon's turn? The other half of my court is certain she is an unnatural warg herself-- like the Young Wolf and the rest of his beastly brothers." Lord Manderly grinned and eyed Jon. "All lies and corruptions of the truth, I am certain. And our King in the North," Lord Manderly sat forward and smiled cunningly at Jon. "Though I am told you have bent the knee," he snickered. Tyrion interjected before the barbs escalated.

"My Lord, on behalf of Queen Daenerys, I thank you for the audience and hospitality. Dry land is welcome land. Can we expect a privy audience with his Lordship today?" Tyrion bowed towards Lord Manderly, not expecting the answer he wanted to hear.

"And where is Her Grace, the Queen, hmm? I will not be insulted as such in my own court, Lord Hand--" suddenly the walls around them shuddered and shook. Dust fell from crevices long forgotten and the ladies of the court gave faint cries of distress. Somewhere close, a dragon roared. Bracing himself on both arms of his great chair, Lord Manderly hoisted himself from the gilded seat. Commotion stirred in every direction. He waddles worse than I, Tyrion observed as the mass of Lord Manderly strode past him. The doors to the great hall were commanded open, and through the arched walkway a perfect vantage point to the yard was created. Tyrion rushed to the dais and climbed up to get a better look. Just over the tops of the heads of lords and ladies and household was Daenerys Targaryen astride the great black back of Drogon. The dragon lowered his shoulder and let down his mother as he had done thousands of times before. And then came the wing beats and plumes of dust. Tapestries fluttered along the wall. Lords and ladies alike shielded their eyes. When the dust had settled, Daenerys Targaryen stood clad in white furs. Tyrion couldn't help but grin.

Lord Manderly led Daenerys into the hall, arm in arm. Though Tyrion could not make out what they were saying... The man is smiling. Perhaps all we needs do is show every lord north of the Neck our dragons. What are politics compared to boyhood dreams? Myths made real. No, that would be much too easy. Lord Manderly may be a northman but he still bent the knee to Tommen. Tyrion shifted uneasily, as did Jon. Dany, however, cooly slid into place between her Lord Hand and her Warden of the North. Her eyes locked intently on to Lord Manderly.

It was Missandei who spoke first. "You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains." It is too quiet. And Manderly looks too pleased with himself. 

"My Lords, my apologies. My dragons wished to hunt afield this morning." Murmurs grew among the crowd.

Lord Manderly raised his hand to silence his court. "Your dragon is a wonder to behold, Your Grace. As it seems are you." Daenerys was accustomed to the flatteries of the Qartheen and Meereenese, and any overtures from bulbous Lord of White Harbor would be met with nonchalance from his Queen, Tyrion knew.

"I thank you, Lord Manderly. For your kind words and gracious hospitality."

"Your litter is no doubt sea-worn. Come." He rose and made way to the doors to his right that led further into the castle. Tyrion lingered behind, wanting to see any exchange made between Jon and Dany. He was not disappointed. Though mostly blocked by the bulk of Dany's furred sleeve, Jon outstretched his gloved hand and grabbed a hold of Dany. Her fingers laced between his for a heart beat, and squeezed. Their eyes met unbroken for a brief moment. It was the first time Tyrion had seen the two display such overt affection, however fleeting it was. On the ship, and in the council chambers, the two never stood directly next to one another, though the distance between them could be sliced through like warm butter. We will see if he is ready for the game. And perhaps a wedding.


	7. The Flower

JON

The way to the council chamber was dark as Lord Manderly led them further down the torch lined passage. And cold. They came upon two great wooden doors, emblazoned with the sigil of House Manderly, and two household guards opened them wordlessly. The room was brighter, and great windows overlooked the city that sprawled out below and the tempestuous gray sky above. Flurries of snow still descended to which Jon looked upon wearily. Lord Manderly took his place at the head of a great white marble table littered with scrolls and parchment and jars of ink and quills. Manderly's rookery has been busy. Daenerys took her seat and the rest of the company followed. Jon, however, chose to stand, keeping close to the crackling fire. Clearing his throat, Lord Manderly spoke first.

"Your Graces, my lords, I needs apologize for the barbs exchanged naught but a moment ago. There are some in my court who still look South to Queen Cersei, despite our pledge to you, Your Grace," Lord Manderly nodded at Jon. "Many of my grandchildren have married Freys. After the slaughter of their house they are dubious of our allegiance with The King in the North. The lone survivor, Old Walder's young bride, bearing the message to all, 'The North Remembers.' More still have been bought to pass along messages southron. I dare not show too much warmth in front of them. Euron Greyjoy's fleet has been seen off our shores and a blockade this close to winter would mean dire peril for all of us. Trading vessels from Essos still make port in our city."

"There is no need to apologize, my Lord," Jon said. "Winter is here and you must protect your household and bannermen, but I am no longer King in the North, my Lord. I have bent the knee to Queen Daenerys and sworn fealty."

"You must forgive this old Northman, but the return of the Stark Kings in the North..." he took a moment to find the words. "After what they did to your brother and household at The Twins. Well, it was a triumphant day for all Northmen the day you were crowned. The lords Stark back home where winter fell those ages ago." he smiled, raised his goblet in a small toast and took a drink.

"Lady Stark now rules Winterfell, my Lord. She is cunning and capable."

"I would expect nothing less from from a Stark woman. Lady Lyanna's spark burned bright as well," Lord Manderly chuckled softly. Jon smiled sadly, and something stirred inside him he could not place. His father always said Arya was most like Lyanna in appearance, wit and demeanor. Arya who he had not seen in many a year. "Come now, let us talk of the present," Lord Manderly said as he gulped another sip of red. "You Grace, your host is welcome to encamp outside my city. You will find no foe in us. Of course, your party is welcome to my quarters and food here in New Castle for as long as needs be. Our banners have been called and we will march North on the morrow toward Winterfell. Ha!" He let out a booming guffaw. "Mermen, Dothraki and Unsullied on the march together. Would that my late father could see it all."

The feast Lord Manderly hosted that night was as much a welcome as it was a send off. Nonetheless the distraction was well met, as it meant Jon could slip away quietly and unnoticed. He retreated to the back of the hall, watching the revelry from afar. Watching Daenerys from afar as she effortlessly politicked. Growing up he was never allowed to partake in official feasts, and the habit stuck with him. Nursing a cup of ale that had long gone piss warm, he could not bring himself to think of much else: the child and the war. Surveying the room he saw Tyrion and Varys supping with Lord Manderly who was still eating, but he had lost track of Daenerys. Panic started to grow in him slightly and he remembered the words Lord Manderly had said in the council chamber, More still have been bought to pass along messages southron. It was Missandei's voice that pulled him from the black voices in his mind.

"Follow me, if it please my lord," He forced himself to down what was left in his ale cup, grit and all, and fell in behind the Summer Islander. Torch in hand, she led Jon up a flight of stone stairs and down a carpeted passage. Wooden carvings filled the space, worm eaten and no doubt former figureheads from fleets past. Further down, Jon could see three Unsullied guarding a iron-laden door. Daenerys. Missandei led Jon to the door, and spoke something in High Valyrian to which the Unsullied responded by opening the door and ushering Jon inside. The solar was handsomely furnished. A thick fur rug sat in front of a great marble mantle, inside which a fire was blazing. Bookshelves and tapestries covered the walls. A table had been set with a vase of wine.

"Jon," a faint voice called from the bedchamber. Though Jon had been with Daenerys for the past few months, and he had had her more times than he could count, his heart beat still quickened. Still a green-boy. He walked to the ajar bedchamber door, his boots thud thudding on the wooden floor, and pushed it open. Sitting up against the wooden headboard of a large four-poster was Dany. She was naked, with a book open in her lap. Candles in the sconces on the walls flickered and a small brazier in the corner crackled.

"Found something interesting?" he nodded at the book.

"A gift from Maester Pylos." Jon rounded the bed and sat on the side, facing Dany. She closed the book and moved closer to him.

"That's kind of him," he took her head in his hands and kissed her softly. Though they parted, he eyes remained closed, savoring the closeness. The togetherness. Jon broke the silence. "Dany, the way I acted before. This morning. I should have said something."

"It wasn't you, Jon." Jon heaved a sigh, his chest shuddering. "I was thinking of my son." Jon eyed her intently. This was not a story he had heard before and Dany had always maintained she could bear no children.

"Your..." Jon trailed off, the word escaped him, fading off into the flickering candlelight. He could not bring himself to say it.

"My son. Rhaego. The blood that traded death for life."

"Your dragons." Dany nodded. Her body had grown rigid. Jon could see she was mustering strength to fight back tears. "Viserion." The name had pulled whatever strength was left in her, and she crumpled into Jon's chest. He brought his arms around her, and felt her body shake through silent sobs. He did not know how long he sat there holding her. Finally she brought her head up to his, and kissed him. Kissed him hard through wet, salted lips. Her hands began to unclasp his breastplate, and then his leather gambeson. Jon got up to finish undressing, and Daenerys retreated back up the bed, bringing herself to rest on the feather pillows. Jon slid underneath the furs, and took a breast in his mouth, he sucked on one and then another for a few moments, the pink nubs growing hard against his tongue as he did. They were already larger and firmer than they had been two weeks past. He placed himself between her legs, spread one open with his knee and entered her. Dany let out a breathless gasp and ground her hips into his. Jon met her mouth with his. Her lips on his while they made love always quickened his release, but he could not bring himself to stop. They were such beautiful lips. Dany groaned as he thrust into her, their bodies hardly parting. She is almost there. Jon could tell when his Queen was about to surrender her body to his and together they collapsed into the oblivion.

Trembling, the two laid in silence, drinking in the warmth of the candle glow and each other.

"I saw you once," Dany said suddenly, bringing her chin to rest on his chest. Her amethyst eyes flickering.

"Oh?" Jon grinned and brought his arms around the bare back of his Queen.

"In Qarth. In the House of the Undying."

"That was years ago. You must've seen a shivering green boy getting his arse kicked at the Wall."

"Well, it wasn't your face. But it was you. I saw many things and more, but I know it was you. A blue flower growing in a chink in a wall of ice."

"A blue flower. That's a winter rose. My Aunt Lyanna's favorite, father always said. They grow all around Winterfell. Father always made sure fresh ones were laid at her feet in the crypts."

"Lyanna. It's a beautiful name," Dany said. "She must have been as beautiful as her winter rose. Rhaegar must have thought so, at least." It was the first time the two had mentioned their relatives. The ones who loved and lost. Lost each other, and lost a kingdom. Dany shifted, and rolled onto her back and Jon to his side. Propping his head on one hand, he brought the other to Dany's still taut stomach. Are you really in there? You are so small. So helpless. With calloused hands, he rubbed her pale stomach softly and laid a single, gentle kiss upon it. "Lyanna," Dany said once more. "If its a girl, her name will be Lyanna."

Jon brought his eyes to meet Danys'. "Aye. Lyanna."


	8. The Travelers

The Travelers

The Causeway through the Neck was dry, but snow fell in thick sheets all around them. The assortment had been traveling the backwoods for near two months, careful to avoid The Kings Road, but the swamps of the neck had driven them to back to the road. The winter storms, however, had left it desolate as of late and safe for the weary travelers. A small mercy. Their saddlebags and packs grew lighter each day, ridding themselves of gold and provisions. The purple knight turned back and glanced at his young lord, small of frame but comely and sturdy, his blonde hair peeking out from underneath his hood. He looks tired. We are all tired. Soon they would arrive at Greywater Watch, however, and soon their task complete.

"There," a member of his party shouted suddenly. "Through the trees!" The purple knight saw it too. A faint glow, bobbing through the sheet of white. Folk whispered of the crannogmen of the marshes, and how the magic of the Children ran through their veins. The purple knight, though not one to fall for such flights of fancy, knew there was some truth to the tales. Their garons whinnied and pulled up. They sense something. Closer the glowing light drew until the knight could make out a black shape with it. A hunched and hooded figure, cloaked in dark green, held a lantern aloft. His gait was uneven, and left strange prints in his wake.

"Are you the Darkstar?" An old, quivering voice come from underneath the man's hood. He was close enough now that the knight could see his small bony hands clutching the lantern.

"I am," said the purple knight. Gerold Dayne pulled his own hood down, revealing silver hair streaked with black, and dark amethyst eyes. The old man nodded.

"The Lord of Greywater Watch has been expecting you." He paused, for a moment, and then curiously eyed the younger man astride a silver garon beside Darkstar. "And you, Lord Edric." The old man smiled, revealing rotted brown teeth. Young Ned turned to Darkstar, but the knight gave him a reassuring nod. The wizened messenger turned and began to trudge back through snow. The party dismounted and led their garons single file behind the old man at a snail's pace until they finally happened upon a small hamlet at the edge of a great marsh. These are old trees. Haunted. "The rest of your party will be safe enough here, Lord Edric, Ser Gerold." They had stopped in front of a teetering, two-storied building, cracked with ruin and moss, its thatched roof slowly collecting snow. "The inn is small but the wench has been preparing for your arrival. You'll find wine and good food to warm ye thereabouts. The stables are around back." Darkstar nodded in acquiescence and he and the young lord continued on to the edge of the dry land where docks met a great flooded swamp.

"Where are you taking us, ser?" Lord Edric finally spoke. He was seven and ten now, and his voice had finally shed the last vestiges of boyhood. "I see no castle." The old man raised his free arm and pointed out towards the swamp, through the thick blanket of falling white. There is naught but grisled trees, and stinking swamp water hereabouts. What Darkstar mistook for more trees and shifting shadow rose a great structure from the marshes. He squinted. Towers, a bridge, dark stone, wood and moss. Greywater Watch stood amid the great swamps of the neck as it had for hundreds of years. The three men stepped aboard a small boat, manned by two oarsmen huddled underneath snow speckled woolen cloaks. The boat rocked as the Dornishmen took their seats and soon they were underway. The water was shallow, but murky and Darkstar did not like murky water. In Dorne the azure seas glistened and were teeming with colorful fish. Here the water stank with rot.

From the hamlet, Greywater looked but half a league directly in front of them, but that was a deception, and the journey there was twisting. Darkstar soon found himself confused and turned around. For what seemed like hours boat crept through tree tunnels and moss canopies until finally the great keep stood in front of them. There is old northern magic still at work here, Darkstar thought. The party had docked and made way across a stone causeway. Greywater Watch was a wooden fortress for the most part, and larger than it looked from the hamlet across the swamp. It had no battlements, but that was no matter: The water and way shifted so often that there was no need for that. The old man led Darkstar and Lord Edric through two great wooden doors, and down a dark, torch lined passageway. The cobbles underneath clacking with each step.

"Lord Reed will receive you in his solar, if it please m'lords." Howland Reed had not been seen in over twenty years. Not since he marched home with Eddard Stark... and the babe. The babe in Eddard's arms. Lord Reed's solar was large and lined with bookshelves and curiosities. Every inch of table was strewn with scrolls, inkwells, parchment and raven quarked from a gilded cage. A fire had been set and the warmth that washed over them was most welcome. Lord Reed sat in a great chair in front of his fire, still as a statue, eyes closed. The road weary travelers stood there between the Lord Reed and his fire for a few moments, the crackles breaking the silence. Does he sleep? No sooner had the thought crossed Darkstar's mind, Lord Reed opened his eyes. First taking in the fire, and then his guests where they stood.

"The Lords of Starfall and High Hermitage. I welcome you to Greywater Watch," he stood from his seat. Howland Reed was tall and willowy with a splash of strawberry blonde hair atop his head, though it had faded with his years. His eyes however, were sad and sorrowful. A man who had known too many tragedies and secrets. "I am Howland Reed, and I have foreseen this meeting many-a-time. The bedroll you carry in your arm, Lord Edric," he put his hands out beckoning for the roll of grey wool in Young Ned's arm and the lord obliged. Silently Howland Reed walked to one of the tables, carefully placed the roll otop the chaos, and unrolled it. Concealed within was a longsword. The scrawny lord unsheathed it. The sword's dappled, milky blade dancing in the firelight like twinkling stars. Howland Reed smiled to himself. "It is as beautiful as I remember." He grasped the hilt in his sword hand and held it aloft, letting the blade drink in the remaining light. In the light of the fire, the sword looked as though it were aflame.

"Dawn," Lord Edric said.

"Dawn," Howland repeated softly, as he brought the sword in closer to inspect, running his fingers gently over the blade. "No matter how dark the night gets, it is the coming dawn that gives us hope. Hope through the darkness. After all, it is dawn the brings forth the light, is it not?" The Lords of Dorne stood silently as Lord Reed continued to examine the blade. "Dorne has beautiful sunrises, as my lords well know. In that tower, Ned and I did not know if the child would survive. Such a small thing. But there in that same tower we watched as the dawn came. It looked as though the world had been set afire. The sky blazed as I had never seen it. And the child lived."

"There have long been whispers of this child, my lord." Darkstar spoke finally, parting his way through the shadows towards Howland.

"And what do these whispers speak of, my lord Darkstar?" Howland Reed eyed the purple knight intently.

"The Bastard of Winterfell. Begotten of Lord Eddard," he paused and looked at Lord Edric, then turned back to Howland, "and a young maid bound to Starfall. Wylla, she was called." Howland Reed nodded and smiled.

"Wylla. Yes, I remember her."

"But those whispers lead us down a false path, do they not, my lord?" Howland Reed stood quietly as if lost in his mind's past.

"What do you know of the Tower of Joy, Ser Gerold?" Howland Reed walked back towards the table where Dawn's sheath lay, and placed it gently on the woolen roll. He then began to scour his bookshelves.

"I know Prince Rhaegar and his Lady Lyanna named it after their year together. That Lord Eddard slew mine own cousin Arthur there, and left with a babe in arm." Howland apparently found what he was looking for among the shelves. An old tome, leather bound and laden with dust. He pulled it from the shelf and laid it open across the table. "I know Wylla was in there. And Wylla traveled North with Lord Stark, and you, Lord Reed," Darkstark continued. "When she returned she was still bound to service at Starfall."

Silently turning the delicate pages, and without looking up, Howland Reed answered. "And why are you here, Ser Gerold? So far from Dorne and when winter is finally upon us."

"Dreams, my lord. The young lord was plagued with them as well. Terrible screaming. A lone tower. A bed of blood. A promise. Lord Stark and the babe... And then you, in this room, wielding the ancestral sword of House Dayne."

"We call them green dreams, ser. Though it is unlike for Donishmen to be gifted with the sight. It is not uncommon, however, for someone to seed the dreams in a person. There they take root and lead men down twisting paths. Ah, here it is." The page he landed upon was littered with small slanted letters, though the language was not in the common tongue of Westeros. "It is High Valyrian, sers, and it speaks of ancient prophecy. In Westeros he is known as the Last Hero. In Asshai, Azor Ahai. Others call him The Prince that was Promised. Many and more this hero has been called. You know of these legends?" Both Dornishmen nodded and Lord Reed continued. "Jaeherys II was told by a woman with the green sight that the Prince that was Promised would be born of his line, between Aerys and Rhaella. Some call her a wood's witch. Others the Ghost of High Heart."

"We saw her. Years ago," Lord Edric interrupted. "When I was still a squire for Lord Beric the brotherhood would visit her. She would tell us the future for a song..." Howland smiled and nodded.

"That's the one. My lords the hour grows late, and you still have much to travel along perilous roads. And time is against you, I'm afraid." this sent confused looks between Darkstar and Lord Edric.

"I do not understand, my Lord," Darkstar began. "The dreams told us to bring you Dawn. We intend to travel home on the morrow. Do what you will with the sword, but take care. It belongs to the Sword of the Morning, wherever he is."

"You are right, and you are wrong, Sers. Dawn does indeed belong to the Sword of the Morning, but it is time for it to answer to a name it has not been called in thousands of years."

"Please speak, plainly sir." Darkstar said, his voice low and thick.

"Lightbringer, my lords," the word hung in the air like a thick fog. "And the child you saw in the lone tower. The child was given the name Jon by his uncle Eddard on our way northward. His mother, however, gave him a different name. Aegon Targaryen. Sixth of his name. Born of ice and fire and reborn amidst salt and smoke along The Wall. And this," he gestured toward the great sword on the table, "this is his sword Lightbringer. Dawn."


	9. Home

JON

Jon woke in total darkness. The wind had picked up, and the tent under which he and Dany slept whapped and thudded in the frozen night. Though a sheen of cold sweat covered his lithe, naked form, Jon felt consumed by fire. He kicked the furs off his body, letting the cold air dry his damp skin. Dany stirred next to him, but did not wake. It must be the hour of the wolf, Jon thought. He slid to the side of the stuffed feather sleeping pad and let his eyes adjust to the black. He needed to get a fire going in the brazier once more but the dream tethered him to where he sat.

Jon had dreamed this dream a thousand times. Atop the Wall he fought off legions of the dead, their eyes aglow with blue, their gnarled hands grasping at his flesh. In his hand, a flaming sword. These were not faceless wights, however: The faces were of those he loved. Sometimes in the dream he would see Ygritte, and Mance and Tormund. Other nights it was Maester Aemon, Lord Commander Mormont, Pyp, and Sam. Tonight he did not recognize the faces. A woman crowned in winter roses, a silver-haired man clad in Targaryen armor, a frail woman with hair long and black. He cut them all down as they scuttled up the wall. Jon forced himself from the dream, rubbed the nights sleep from his face, and finally stood to rekindle the brazier.

They were only a days ride from Wintertown and Winterfell, and by nightfall they would be supping beneath the great hall amidst Northern lords and ladies alike. But Jon felt as though he were ranging beyond The Wall and into the unknown. His stomach churned. The Lords of the North were proud in their heritage, fierce in their loyalty and stalwart in their duty. Jon did not know what they would make of Daenerys. Not only was she an outsider, but she was a Targaryen, daughter of the Mad King. And now she carries my child. He blew into the fire of the brazier, its flame growing and crackling, sending flickering shadows of Jon to dance against the canvas wall. He wondered if he stared into the flame long enough he could see visions like Lady Melisandre, Beric and Thoros. No, the dream is enough of a vision for now.

"Jon," a faint voice behind him called into the dark. He turned and saw that Daenerys had woken.

"I didn't mean to wake you." Jon wandered back to the sleeping pad and sat at the edge. With a single calloused hand, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Dany grabbed the hand and kissed the inside of his palm.

"It's no matter. I was half-asleep as it is." Jon looked at Daenerys as soft orange light crept across her face. He still was not used to her beauty. The curve of her lips, the purple pools of her eyes. The urge to drink it all in overcame him and he bent to kiss the night's sleep from her lips. He slid underneath the furs with her once more. He held her close and burrowed his face in the silver strands of her hair. Together they drifted back to sleep among the sounds of the crackling brazier and winter winds. This time sleep was dreamless for Jon.

"Pardon me Your Grace, milord," a small voice echoed somewhere in Jon's mind. He awoke once more to the faint light of dawn and the two disentangled themselves. A small squire stood at the entrance to their pavillion, shifting his gaze from the abed figures to the ground. "The van is ready to depart. We await your orders."

Dany spoke first. "Tell the host to make way. Lord Snow and the blood of my blood are fast riders. We will make up whatever time is lost to us." The boy bowed and turned to leave. Jon and Dany dressed in silence, the impending arrival at Winterfell carving out the space between them. Jon swung his fur cloak over his head and fastened his sheath about his waist, the white head of Longclaw's wolf hilt peering out from beneath the furs. Finally, with a small strip of leather, he tied his onyx hair back from his face and smoothed it back with his hands. Jon let out a shuddered breath as if to release some of the tension that filled him. Dany approached him and planted a soft kiss on his lips. Hands intertwined, they left the pavilion, bound North for Winterfell.

The caravan stretched for miles, and in a few days time, the Unsullied would soon join the rest of the Targaryen host. Their journey had been long and arduous after Euron Greyjoy destroyed the Targaryen fleet, but Daenerys' destruction of the Eastern flank of the Lannister army meant safe passage for the Unsillied. Jon and Dany rode past the Dothraki, he on his black garron and she on her silver. The screamers greeted their khaleesi with a high pitched yelp and a raised arakh. Dothraki north of the Neck, Jon smiled to himself. And in winter. A bastard arriving with a Targaryen Queen as his lover. An army of the dead and the Night King. Jon half expected to be met by a company of grumpkins and snarks on the road- he would not blink twice if they did. It was Tyrion and Davos at the head of the host. Lord Varys, Missandei and a few other household members took up residence in a great wheel house behind them.

"Your Grace, Lord Snow," Tyrion greeted. "Davos tells me we are but a few measly hours from Winterfell. I'm sure my Lady wife is most anxious to see me after these long years apart." Jon was not pleased, this much Tyrion could ascertain. "Oh lighten up, Lord Snow. The marriage was a sham... and unconsummated."

"My lady sister is stronger for what she through in King's Landing and at Ramsey bidding. She is no longer a girl to be tormented with. Might be that you sleep with a dagger beside your bed, Lord Hand," Davos let out a bellowing laugh, and Jon chuckled. Tyrion gave Jon a sly grin.

"Well met, Lord Snow. Well met indeed."

On and on the host marched, not even stopping for refreshment at Dany's insisting. All will be feasted tonight. They will survive till nightfall without food and all have waterskins, she had said. Jon reminded himself that she had been given the moniker the Dragon Queen, and that at times it wasn't just for her winged children. At dusk the walls and towers of Winterfell could be seen atop the next ridge over and they soon fell upon two steel-clad household guards flying the wolf sigil of Stark. Home.

"Your Grace," the fat one called to Jon, forcing his voice to break through the howling winter winds. He still styles me as King in the North. "Your sisters await your return in the great hall." Sisters. What could he mean?

"My lords are mistaken. I have but one sister. Lady Sansa of Winterfell."

"I beg pardon, but it is his Grace who is mistaken. Lady Arya is within." Arya. Arya is alive. He had not brought himself to hope as much in many years. Frantic, Jon looked to Tyrion and then to Dany, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Go," she nodded. "We will catch up."

Jon turned his horse and spurred him on, galloping towards the castle. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as the sting of the frigid air whipped past him until the castle and all its crenelations sprouted from the ground in front of him. The "halts!" of the armed guards at the gate turned to whispers as he flew past them and into Winterfell's inner yard where it was swarming with wayns, oxen, household and common folk alike. In a single motion, Jon swung from his horse and bounded across the slick mud towards the great hall. Each heart beat climbed ever upward in his throat. The doors to the great hall were closed shut, but with both hands and all his might he pushed them open. The hall was abuzz with Stark household members. Some carrying flagons of ale, others with linens and cups, but the dais at the head of the room was empty. Searching every face, Jon slowly walked forward, the men and women bowed and curtseyed as they parted for him.

"Hello, Jon," a small, smooth voice crept up from behind him. He froze. For a moment he wasn't sure he wanted to turn around. What if this is a dream? What if she is not Arya? Hope, however, got the best of him and wheeled him around anyway. There she stood fierce, small and still. Clad in boots, a leather gambeson and a leather jerkin, she was almost unrecognizable... but Jon knew his sister. He knew the grey of her eyes and the smirk in her smile. Arya was home.

"Arya..." With a single step, Arya flung her hands around Jon's neck. Jon braced himself against the impact, and wrapped his arms around her small frame. How long they embraced each other, he could not tell, but when they parted both their cheeks were tear-stained and salty. Arya ungloved her hand, and with her thumb wiped a tear from Jon. He let go a breathless laugh.

"I've missed you," Jon said, his voice still labored with disbelief. It was not a ghost that stood in front of him, but a girl of flesh and blood. His blood.

"Here," Arya reached to her side and from a sheath pulled a small, skinny sword. She held it aloft for Jon to see.

"You still have it?" Jon took Needle from Ayra, inspecting it.

"I almost never came back," she said quietly and sadly. "But when the hour was darkest, Needle was everything. Needle was your smile, Jon." Jon smiled, ungloved his hand and mussed his little sister's hair just like he used to all those years ago. Before they lost their father, their mother and brothers. Before death came to Winterfell. Though she probably could have swatted him away, Arya let him do it. "Come on," Arya said finally as she beckoned Jon through the door behind the dais. "Someone else waits for you."


	10. The Highborn and The Rogue

The Young Lord of Starfall

The snow had ceased, but the northern gods traded it for wind. Not just any wind. A biting, bone chilling wind. A wind that sucked the will to go on. But the small Dornish band pressed northward all the same. Moat Cailin came and went with naught but a few grunts and glances from those who held the way. The lone direwolf sigil flew atop the ruins, signaling that House Stark truly did raise another King in the North. From Cailin, it was only a few days ride to White Harbor.

Before Edric and Darkstar departed Greywater Watch, Howland Reed gifted the two with enough foodstuffs and gold to see them safely to White Harbor. One night however, while the castle slept, a shadow crept into Young Ned's chamber. He woke to a hand over his mouth, the flickering flame of a single tallow candle, and the face of Lord Reed shrouded in shadow.

"Shhh! You must not scream, dear boy. I do not mean to frighten you, but I fear you are in great danger." Ned sat upright, his head swimming in sleep and confusion.

"I do not understand, my lord." Ned reached to light the lamp at the side of his bed, but Lord Reed batted his hand away.

"You must not, my lord," he whispered. "Darkstar will betray you." Edric sat breathless, unable to grasp what Lord Reed was saying. Edric knew the danger of the mission from the outset. They had slain the guards keeping watch over Dawn and he knew the risk of being caught with the sword, but Darkstar was insistent. Insistent that they travel north to see Lord Reed. Insistent they bring him Dawn. The green dreams, Ned thought. He must have foreseen this.

"Did you..." Ned trailed off.

"Did I dream it? Yes, boy. The gods saw fit to plant this seen within me. Darkstar means to steal the sword for his own and travel back to Dorne, naming himself Lord of Starfall. He means to use the truth of the sword to name himself Sword of the Morning. He plans to take Dorne for himself."

It had night a week since Lord Reed had crept into his bedchamber, and the Young Lord of Starfall grew more uneasy by the day. Darkstar was a shrewd, cunning man and Ned felt green and afraid. It was the way Darkstar glanced at Ned with that sly, crooked smile. His eyes seemed to bore through all. He knows I suspect him. He must.

It was a single league from the outskirts of White Harbor, along a rutted snow blown road that Darkstar decided to take Lightbringer for himself. Ned had taken the lead, lost in his mind, careful to avoid breaking his horses ankle on the ruts. Were it not for a brief respite from the gusting wind, Ned wouldn't have heard it-- the wet cough of a man choking on his own blood. Then the scuffle of hooves turning, a scream, a clang of steel on steel, and another bloody, wet cough. He has slain two. Ned had a choice: to turn and fight, or to flee. The sword. Where is the sword? He turned in his saddle and searched for the bedroll containing Lightbringer but found nothing in its place. Darkstar was battling the two remaining members of their party on horseback. Reins in one hand, and... Dawn, Ned realized, it is Dawn he wields. Ned turned and yah'ed his garron forward into the fray. By then Darkstar had thrown one from his horse and was parrying with the other. With a single blow, Darkstar struck the man in the arm and cleaved it clean off. The man fell lifeless from his horse.

Darkstar's head spun around, his silver-gray hair whipping in the wind like a lord's banner. His eyes narrowed on Ned.

"Come, cousin! No need to be afraid. Lay down your arms and no harm will come to you," he yelled over the howling wind. He means to kill me too, now. I will not give him that satisfaction, not today. Instead of charging Darkstar head on, he swung his garron to the left while Darkstar slashed ahead with his blade, missing Ned entirely. He knew the more he stalled the more likely Darkstar would be to turn and flee south. He also knew that his castle forged steel would not withstand against Dawn for long, and whatever path he chose forward he must make a quick, clean death out of it-- or else be killed himself. Sword raised, he turned and charged Darkstar once more. Darkstar parried the blow and swung his sword around and slashed at Ned's side, Dawn lodged within his steel breastplate. Pain surged through Ned's body as he felt the edge of the blade cut though skin, but he knew the steel stopped enough of the blow. The wound would not be fatal. Now, strike now. Remembering the swordplay Lord Beric taught him, Ned brought his sword down upon the side of Darkstar's neck, cleaving skin and tendon alike in two. A gush of blood sprayed from the wound. Eyes bulging, Darkstar dropped Dawn and clutched both hands around the wound, but Ned knew any attempt at a tourniquet would be futile-- the wound was clean and deep. Darkstark slumped in his saddle and then fell, succumbing to the futility of his wound.

Wordlessly, Ned threw his own sword and swung from his garron. With trembling hands he undid the sword belt and Dawn's sheath from around the lifeless body of Darkstar and fastened it around his waist. Sword sheathed, he heaved himself upwards onto his garron once more, sending searing, hot pain through his body. Ned spurred his horse northward, leaving the carnage in his wake. If he could make it to White Harbor he would live.

A single league seemed to stretch on for thousands, but soon the outskirts of the seaport appeared all around him. Each breath he took was more labored than the last; his side burst into flame with inhale of bitter winter air. I am almost there. Soon I'll seek a maester. I just need.. I need... I...

A crash and baudy laughter from below woke Ned. Candleglow and tallow smoke filled the small, sparsely furnished room. His mattress was lumpy, and the coverlet was threadbare but he finally felt warm. He brought a hand to his side but where the cut had been Ned found instead a clean linen bandage. Dawn, he thought suddenly. He sat up quickly, his head pounding. Where is it? He swung his feet off the bed and onto the cold planked floor, but stopped short. The greatsword in its sheath was propped against a chair along with the rest of his possessions. Relief washed over him. Carefully, Ned dressed and followed the noise below.

Ned descended the narrow set of stairs one by one and stopped at the foot. Rows of benches and tables were laid out, some bare, others sporting men and women supping on what looked to be greasy capons and tankards of ale. The floor was strewn with straw and at the other end of the room laid a few good high-backed leather chairs in front of a roaring fire. Two small boys ran in front of him, whacking at each other with wooden swords followed by a stout woman with bouncing breasts carrying empty tankards.

"Excuse me, my lady," Ned reached out a hand to stop the woman.

"Ha!" the wench guffawed. "Thought you was just wounded at the side. Didn't know your eyes was gone as well. You have coin? Evening meal is three coppers. Your two friends are taking their supper at the fire."

"My..." Ned stopped short of finishing that question lest he draw even more unwanted attention to himself. He nodded politely. "My friends. Yes, thank you." The wench eyed him curiously but moved on regardless of her suspicions. Ned walked across the room, the straw crunching beneath his feet. At the fire he rounded upon two travelers both wrapped in woolen cloaks. The first had a handsome chiseled face with short, cropped dark blonde hair. It's flakes of pepper seemed to glitter in the firelight. The second man's features were more rogue, but handsome nonetheless. The fire bounced off his thinning patch of dark hair.

"Well, look who's up." The rogue said in a cheerful King's Landing accent.

"You look much more well rested than when we came upon you," the other replied. His accent giving away the station of his birth. He's highborn, thought Ned. "We've food and ale, though neither are very good."

"I thank you," Ned said, curiously eyeing both.

"What do you remember, lad?" the rogue asked, leaving forward in his seat.

"Well," Ned racked his brain. Darkstar. Dawn. The road into White Harbor. Falling. Falling into what seemed to be an eternity. "I can't say I remember much of anything after coming into White Harbor. We are in White Harbor?"

The rogue laughed. "Oh not to worry, lad. You've made it into White Harbor. That's a nasty gash you've found yourself with." He nodded at Ned's side.

It was the high born who spoke next. "We're at the Inn of the Barking Seal on the Southern outskirts of White Harbor. My companion and I found you outside in a pool of your own blood..." his voice trailed off, and the man looked about the room as if to ascertain any unwanted listeners. "And a rather interesting sword."

"I know not what you mean, sers."

The high born chuckled. "Last time I checked, removing Dawn from Starfall was punishable by death. Yet somehow a little lordling managed to sneak it all the way to White Harbor."

"I am no lordling, sers." Edric replied, his mind racing.

"Oh, but you are," a wide smile spread across the high born's handsome face. "It's been a few years now, but you were there at The Hand's Tourney when poor Ned Stark was named. You were there squiring for Lord Beric Dondarrion," the high born paused, his green eyes reading Ned like an open book. Weren't you, Lord Dayne?" Ned's eyes widened. Could it be? His golden hair glimmers no more, but that face... On second inspection the face had not changed that much. He is older, and he has suffered and it shows. But he is still...

"Yes, my lord. I am Jaime of House Lannister. But you'll find no foe in me. Our destination-- it would seem-- is one in the same."


	11. Before the Old Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Daenerys POV, the themes of which are heavily inspired by her first POV chapter in AGOT. Hope you enjoy it!

Daenerys

The Targaryen host waited for the drawbridge to lower and the portcullis to raise for what seemed like an eternity to Dany. A loud thud from the opening bridge and herald shouts from bowmen above signaled the host forward. Dany’s hooded figure passed under the dark, double-bailey crenellations of Winterfell atop her silver mare, surrounded by her Dothraki bloodriders. Lord Tyrion, Varys (who had left the comfort of his wheelhouse), Missandei, and Ser Davos trotted not far behind. The castle was far larger than Dany ever could have imagined, sprawling outward for acres and acres. And busy. The first yard was swarming with household, knights and lords. Even the Wintertown that had sat vacant all summer had been filled now that winter had come. Curious faces peered from behind curtains, and children sat at the stoops of their thatched cottages to sneak a peek at the Dragon Queen. 

A welcome retinue was waiting for them in the courtyard and that is where Dany stopped her host. The first row Dany gathered were members of the Stark family: A tall, willowy beauty with red hair; a small spritely girl with large gray eyes and dark brown hair; and finally a boy with a thick thatch of dark hair in a wheeled-chair. Behind them an assortment of Northern lords and their banners: Cerwyn, Umber, Karstark, Manderly, Flint, Mormont, and Glover. These sigils she recognized from her lessons long ago in the house with the red door-- the only home she had ever known. This is Jon’s home. The thought of Jon growing up in this place endeared it to her. On their approach to Winterfull she imagined a dark-haired little boy pretending to be a knight, swinging wooden-swords at his brother Robb in some pretend battle. She smiled at the thought: of Jon growing up with siblings and a father. Though she knew Lady Catelyn had been cold and at times cruel to Jon, he still had a family. The only family Daenerys had ever known never loved her, but only valued her insomuch as he could use her to come into his crown. Kind Ser Willem died so long ago that Dany hardly remembered his face, only his soft leathery hands when she perched in his lap to read a story. After that Dany and Viserys were homeless. Their names the only thing of value they had left. Jon never had a name, but he had a home and a family. Two things Dany that had evaded Dany her entire life. 

Dany pulled down the snow-speckled hood of her riding cloak, sparking murmurs from the crowd. Tyrion unhorsed himself as well, and padded to Daenerys’ side. They approached the Stark children, all who nodded their heads in recognition.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace,” the tall, beauty spoke. “I am Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell. You are welcome to our beds, bread and salt as it please you.” 

“Many thanks, my lady,” Dany said. Lady Stark’s face remained cold and unreadable, her words icy and untrusting. Dany expected this. 

“This is Lady Arya, trueborn daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark,” Arya nodded at Dany with the same stony stare as her sister. “This is Brandon Stark, trueborn son of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark.” 

“Welcome Daenerys Stormborn,” Brandon spoke, his voice smooth and emotionless. Dany looked at Tyrion, whose face had gone ashen, but he continued the formalities all the same. 

“My Lords Stark, you stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. On her behalf, I thank you all for the generous guest right. Last time we all met in this yard under much different circumstances. Allow me to impart my sincerest condolences for those lost to you since then.” He’s nervous. Dany glanced behind the children Stark at all the northern lords, all of whom were glowering angrily at her Hand. We cannot afford to let this slip away from us. Each word I say will be weighed. 

“Thank you, Lord Hand, but it is not us you should be thanking for the guest right, My Lord,” Sansa spoke. “Jon is King here.”

“Indeed, he was. Your northern lords were wise to name him King in the North. But he has bent to knee to our Queen,” he said, gesturing to Daenerys. 

“I cannot speak for all of the North, My Lord. But our people named him. It was he they chose.” Daenerys spoke before Tyrion could answer.

“A decision House Targaryen respects. His lord is an honorable man.” murmurs of ‘aye’ drifted upward from the northern lords. 

“Jon is the most honorable man, you are ever like to meet, Your Grace.” Sansa eyed her suspiciously as the yard fell silent. Dany met Sansa’s gaze with equal intensity. “Come,” Sansa broke the silence, “the evening grows colder and a feast awaits. You’ll be seen to your chambers in Great Keep.” And with that, Sansa raised an eyebrow at Dany, turned on her heels and disappeared into the castle. Bran and the Northern lords followed suit, though Arya lingered behind. Her face riddled with a playful curiosity and slyness that Dany would have enjoyed--even admired-- under other circumstances. This evening, though, the look made her feel uneasy. 

“Jon’s in the Godswood. C’mon, I’ll show you,” Arya turned and headed towards a small tunnel at the edge of the Great Keep and beckoned Dany to follow. Tyrion grabbed Dany’s arm, stopping her.  
“Your Grace…” He looked at her pleadingly. 

“Do not worry yourself, my lord. I will be back with you soon.”

Dany did not expect to see a forest within the castle, but she found herself standing at the edge of a great expanse of trees nonetheless: ash, hawthorn, chestnut, and soldier pines. Though some had shed their leaves, others stood as tall green sentinels. The ground was muddy and without snow, and a path wound ever inwards to the heart of the godswood-- the weirdwood. 

“Through there,” Arya pointed down the path. Dany thanked her and descended into the sacred space. 

At first she did not see him. The air was heavy with a grey mist. But then the mist parted for just a brief second, and through the silver moonlight she saw him. Across a small pool of steaming water, Jon kneeled at the base of a white weirwood, its red-leafed canopy casting a strange pall overhead. To others it might have felt insidious, but Dany felt no fear, only calm and curiosity. She moved around the basin of the pool, closer to the heart tree, closer to Jon. Not wanting to interrupt his prayer, Dany instead kneeled next to him and clutched his hand in hers. She closed her eyes and for the first time prayed to Jon’s northern gods. 

Dany’s mind seemed to swim in the presence of the tree. She tried to pray like she had prayed to the Seven but it seemed futile. Something kept dragging her prayers back to one word: Home. It looped over and over in her mind’s eye until images appeared. The house with the red door. Viserys. Drogo. Fire and Blood. Her dragons suckling at her breast. More fire and blood. Pain. A bed of blood. A melancholy man, silver of hair, plucking at a harp. A blue rose growing from a chink in a wall of ice… Jon. Jon’s face swam forward in her mind’s eye. And then he was fighting. Fighting hordes of the dead. Slashing at them with a flaming sword. Dany. A low voiced called to her, but she did not want to leave Jon, not when he was in danger. Dany, it said again louder than the last. Still Dany stayed in prayer. Dany! 

Daenerys opened her eyes. The visions were gone except for Jon’s face as he kneeled before her, his hands clasped with hers in her lap. “It’s alright,” Jon said. “You’re safe.”

“I…” Dany’s chest was heaving, her voice low and breathless.

“You’ve never spoken to a heart tree before, have you?” Dany shook her head. “My father used to say it’s impossible to tell a lie in the presence of a heart tree. Sometimes he said the gods were silent. Others he said the gods spoke to him. Did they speak to you?” Dany nodded her head, silently. 

“And you, Jon. Of what did your Northern gods speak?” Something is not right. His face is pale and sad. Jon reached into his cloak and withdrew a yellowed sheet of paper. He handed it to Daenerys. In the moonlight Daenerys could make out faint scrawl. ‘280th day of my 50th year...Due to unforeseen events and … I have to … from setting down my records for… I have granted an annulment to Prince Rhaegar for his … marriage to Elia Martell and … his marriage to Lyanna Stark in Dorne. He forbid me to tell anyone of the ceremony so I shall never.’ Dany looked up from the paper but Jon’s eyes were downcast and she could not read his face. Dany reread the paper once more. 

“Your aunt and my brother… they were… married?” 

“No. My mother,” Jon said quietly. “And my father were married.” Danys heart pounded as if trying to escape her chest. 

“Jon.” He did not answer. “Jon,” she said once more, this time a command. Finally he looked up. “Where did you get this?”

“It doesn't matter,” his voice was thick with sadness and confusion. Home. Home. Home. The word seemed to quark in her mind like a raven’s call. Jon is the most honorable man you are ever like to meet. Jon. Jon. Jon Snow. The words quarked again. No, that is not his name. Snow is a bastard’s name. ‘Marriage to Lyanna Stark in Dorne.’ She grabbed his hand. 

“Your name…,” she asked, her voice almost a whisper. 

“My name,” Jon paused, his chest heaving. Dany could see him struggle over the words. “is Aegon Targaryen.” They were silent for a time as grey mists from the spring swirled around them. 

“Home,” Dany finally whispered into the dark. So quietly she was not sure she even said it herself.

“What did you say?” Jon looked up finally. His eyes searching Daenerys intently. 

“When I was little, I lived in a house with a red door in Braavos. There was a small courtyard and a little lemon tree that I watched grow from a sapling. I remember the first year we had lemons from the tree Ser Willem let me pick them and we made lemon juice sweetened with honey and lavender. Ser Willem gave me a doll one year on my name day. I don’t remember her name, but I remember holding her at night and praying that the men would never come and take us away from there. But the men didn’t have to come. Ser Willem died. The servants stole what Viserys and I had left, and Viserys sold what he could to buy passage among the free cities. When I told my brother that I wanted to go home, he used to strike me and call me an idiot and say that our home was across the Narrow Sea. All I wanted was to go back to Braavos and Ser Willem. Back to the house with the red door. When I flowered I was sold to Khal Drogo for his army. When I questioned him, Viserys used to twist my nipples and say that he’d let the entire khalasar fuck me if it meant getting him the Iron Throne. No one ever asked me what I wanted. If they had I would have told them I wanted a family. That more than anything I wanted a home.”

“And now? Now what do you want?” tears began to pool in Jon’s eyes, and Daenerys felt a lump begin to grow in her throat. She swallowed it, forcing herself to go on. 

“When my husband died, when I lost my son, when my dragons were born… I became the protector of my people. I forced myself to forget the red door, and to remember my words: Fire and blood. For so long I had forgotten where I came from. I was the blood Aegon the Conqueror. I discovered that the mistake I had made from the beginning was putting faith in other men, when I should have putting it in myself. But then I met the King in the North.” Daenerys let out a sob, unable to contain her emotion any longer. Jon reached out, grabbing her face with his rough calloused hands. “If I had trusted him from the beginning everything would have been different.” Jon leaned forward and kissed the tears from Daenerys’ cheeks. “Ask me, Jon. Ask me what I want again.” Jon leaned in, letting his forehead rest against Daenerys’, her eyes closed, her cheeks salt-streaked. 

“What do you want, Daenerys?” he whispered. “What do you want now that I’m no longer who you thought I was?”

“I want you, Jon. I want us, our child, together. You are my home.” Daenerys turned around, positioned herself between Jon’s legs and leaned back against him. Jon wrapped his hands around her stomach, and together they sat against the base of the heart tree, it’s great face peering down on them.


	12. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the great feedback! I thought really carefully as to whose POV I would like to use for Jon's parentage revelation (which we see here as a flashback), so I hope you guys agree. Once again, thank you for the kind words. It's always nice to hear that my writing style comes across to readers. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy the newest installment.

**SAMWELL**

The cacophony of Winterfell’s Great Hall swarmed around him like ants on a hill, but Sam sat alone, brooding over a slice of roast beef that had long gone cold. _It is done. It had to be done._ In truth, however, he was not sure sure of the path that lay ahead now that it had been done. Earlier that evening when Arya had led Jon to Bran’s solar, Sam paced nervously before a crackling hearth. _Have courage_ , Samwell, he told himself. But words were wind, and the courage never seemed to come. Sam jumped as the heavy oaken door swung open, revealing Jon and Arya on the other side. There in the doorway, Jon stood agog and motionless for a few moments, his dark eyes wide with disbelief.

“Bran,” Jon said breathless into the flickering firelight.

“Hello, Jon,” Bran’s voice was kind and sad, as though weary of the task ahead. Jon stumbled forward and fell to his knees, embracing the brother he had long thought vanished from this world.

“How…” Jon pressed himself backward from Bran, still kneeling before him as the warmth of the hearth seeped over the solar.

“How did I get here?” A gentle smile grew across Bran’s face. “It is a story for another time.” Jon looked from Ayra to Bran, and back again. He rose, his face awash with astonishment as he stood in the gentle glow of the firelight.

“And you,” Jon turned to Sam, grinning. He walked over and embraced his brother of the Watch.

“Well, all the citadel had me doing was changing chamber pots. I figure I’d be of more use up here.”

“You figured right,” Jon said, still smiling. A silence befell the room as an overwhelmed Jon stood in the middle of Sam, Arya and Bran. Arya moved toward the door, but Jon stopped her short of leaving. “And where are you off to?”

“To find the Lady of Winterfell,” she said coyly, closing the door behind her. Sam moved to the table where a jug of stout, brown ale had been brought up from the kitchens. He poured two horns and handed one to Jon. Sam gulped his down in a single breath to which Jon looked at amused.

“Thirsty?” Jon asked as Sam laughed into his ale nervously. _I cannot do this. It will destroy him._ Bran wheeled himself to another table where Septon Maynard’s diary laid open to the 280th day of his 50th year.

“Jon,” Bran called as he pulled the leather bound book down from the table, setting it gently on his lap. “What did father tell you of your mother?” Jon looked up suddenly from his ale.

“My mother,” His voice thick and throaty. It was not so much as question as it was a reflection, Sam saw. He watched as Jon searched his mind for any recollection. “Nothing,” he said finally. “Before we parted, he promised that we’d talk of my mother the next time we met,” Jon recalled. There was a pain and sadness to his voice. “Why do you ask this?” The fire crackled and popped, and outside the winter winds howled like a lone wolf crying into the night.

“When Robert’s Rebellion was over, when Prince Rhaegar laid dead in the Trident,” Bran said, “my father rode to Dorne with Howland Reed, William Dustin, Ethan Glover, Mark Ryswell, Martyn Cassel, and Theo Wull. Do you know why they rode to Dorne after the war was won?” Jon looked searchingly at Bran. Sam felt petrified.

“To bring my Aunt Lyanna’s body home to Winterfell.” Bran nodded.

“Only my father and Howland Reed survived the fray with Rhaegar’s Kingsguard. Not even Arthur Dayne survived-- The Sword of the Morning”

“The Kingsguard?” Jon asked, incredulous. “Father slew Arthur Dayne at the Ruby Ford, ‘loyal to his last breath,’ father used to say. ”

“And loyal he stayed to his last breath. Lord Dayne died protecting the prince of the realm.”

“Viserys? Daenerys’ brother? But what...”

“No,” Bran said. His eyes boring into Jon’s. “It was not Viserys Targaryen who they died protecting. And father did not meet Arthur Dayne on the Trident. They met instead in Dorne, at the Tower of Joy.”

“The tower…,” Jon’s voice trailed off. “Why were there Kingsguard at the Tower of Joy? Rhaegar left the tower and was slain on the Trident.”

“He was. But as I said, Lord Dayne remained to protect a prince of the realm. The heir to the Iron Throne.”

“What is the meaning of this, Bran?” Jon stood in the middle of the solar, his voice twisted with frustration and impatience. “What does the Tower of Joy and Rhaegar Targaryen have to do with my mother.”

“ _Everything_.” Bran’s words were sharp, and cut across Jon like a thousand and one daggers.

“Everything,” Jon whispered, his eyes wide. He looked at Sam who could only nod at Jon as all his words were swept away by the winter winds.

“They died protecting Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name,” Bran finally said. “Son of Rhaegar Targaryen…” Bran paused and looked at Sam, and back to Jon who stood frozen. “And Lyanna Stark.”

“Lyanna…” Sam could see the cogs of Jon’s mind turning. _He understands._ Jon’s chest began to heave, each breath more labored and stuttered than the last.

“Lyanna. Your mother, Jon.” Bran wheeled forward, closer to Jon.

“And father…” Jon said, his voice had cracked under the revelation, as though breaking into a thousand tiny fragments. Each carrying a thousand and one questions. _He grieves for Ned Stark now._ _The father twice lost to him now._

“Your uncle, Jon. Your true father died at the Battle of the Trident. Prince Rhaegar. My father brought you to Winterfell from Dorne. He gave you the name Snow and claimed you as his bastard to protect you. To protect you from Robert Baratheon.”

“Snow. My name…” Jon let his true name hang in the air like a heavy haze.

“Your true name…” Bran’s voice echoed in Sam’s mind. Bran then held the book out to Jon. Jon walked slowly to the open page, to Septon Maynard’s entry...

A burst of drunken laughter shook Samwell from the grips of the past and back to the present. Back to the great hall where a knight of the Vale had fallen from the bench they shared as roars of laughter rose up to meet the fumbling drunkard. Samwell himself rose from the bench, unable to stomach anymore ale or merriment. He searched the hall but found no trace of Jon. Daenerys sat atop the dais with the rest of the lords Stark, locked in conversation with Lady Sansa. Lady Arya sat still as a shadow, watching the revelry though grey Stark eyes. The ale and wine had alleviated some of the tension the Targaryen host had brought upon Winterfell, but Sam knew it was not enough. Distrust spread like wildfire among the northern lords.

Sam pushed his way through the bawdy crowd toward the back of the hall. More than anything, he wanted to be back in his chamber with Gilly and Little Sam. To make love to her quietly and tenderly. Before he could cross the threshold however, a rough hand landed on his shoulder. Sam turned only to find Ser Jorah Mormont.

“Ser Jorah!” Sam said, winded from the startle.

“I am sorry to startle you like this Maester Sam.” Ser Jorah’s voice was low and gravelly.

“Oh,” Sam gave an uncomfortable chuckle, “I am no Maester. I left the citadel before I forged any links.”

“More’s the pity for them,” Jorah said kindly. He put his hand on Samwell’s back, ushering him out of the Great Hall. “Walk with me.” Sam did as Ser Jorah commanded and went with the old knight out into the yard. The feast had emptied the yard of its contents and naught a soul could be found except for Ser Jorah and Sam save for the sentries at the gate. “You saved my life, Samwell Tarly. I owe you a great debt.” Sam shuffled along with Ser Jorah through the yard. The wind was bitter cold and bit through every layer of fur Sam had on.

“I was happy to do it, Ser Jorah. I owed your father a great debt.”

“It’s the Lord Commander that I wish to speak with you of.” “Lord Commander?” Sam turned, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. Ser Jorah nodded. “What is it that you want to know?”

“The mutiny.”

“Mutiny… Well, we were at Craster’s Keep beyond The Wall,” Sam began, but Ser Jorah interrupted.

“The mutiny against Lord Commander _Snow_ , Lord Tarly.” Sam felt queasy at the thought. At the thought of Jon dying at the hands of his sworn brothers, at the thought of the cold steel piercing his heart, at the thought of him dying alone in the snow. _I should have been there._

“I was not there, Ser. But Jon brought the wildlings down from beyond The Wall. Saved them, he did. Saved thousands. And…” Sam struggled with himself to find the proper words.

“Go on, my lord,” Ser Jorah urged.

“He was killed for it, Ser. Four of his sworn brothers killed him for making peace with the wildlings. No man has ever brought wildings into the realm before. Jon was the one to do it, though. He was the one to lead the fight then, just like he’s the one to lead this fight now.” Ser Jorah nodded.

“I--” a bevy of shouts sprang from the gate sentries before Ser Jorah could finish. Through the tunnel rode three large garrons, each topped with a rider shrouded in fur-lined hoods, their faces wrapped and guarded from the winter winds. They stopped before Samwell and Ser Jorah and dismounted. Jorah drew his sword, ready to meet the strangers in battle. “Name yourselves, sers, by order of the Queen,” he commanded. One by one the riders pulled down their hoods and revealed their faces. Sam looked to Ser Jorah whose eyes had gone wide with astonishment.

“Do you know these men, Ser Jorah?” Sam asked, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Jorah and the riders.

“No,” Jorah said gruffly. “But I know one.” Sam looked at the silent riders, standing breathless in the shadow of the Great Hall. “He is known to many in the realm as Kingslayer.”


	13. The Dragon Under Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon faces his past.
> 
> Daenerys faces the Northern Lords. 
> 
> Jon has a big announcement.

**JON**

 

The crypts of Winterfell were the warmest place in the castle, but Jon felt as though he were ranging across the Frostfangs. It was unease that made him tremble, Jon knew, not a biting northern wind, but he felt cold all the same. Buried deep beneath the ground near the North Gate, the crypt air was rank with the tang of ancient earth and sulfur--the smoke of the dragon beneath Winterfell the smallfolk always said. Down in the crypts the Kings of Winter and Lords of Winterfell rested eternally, only their crumbling stone visages and granite wolves and steel swords were left. Their remains, however, long turned to dust. Jon wound his way down the steps one by one, his outstretched hand feeling the walls as he descended. At the foot of the stairs a great arched, stone passage sprawled before him. Candles lit the way along ledges down the length of crypt; hundreds of years of wax poured over the edges like stalactites. 

 

As a boy, Jon never felt at home in this dark, foreboding place. The stone wolves frightened him and they stalked and snarled in his dreams, but it was glacial stares of the Kings and Lords he dreaded most. In those dreams Jon wanted to scream  _ I’m not a Stark! You can’t keep me here, b _ ut it was futile and Jon would descend into the dark anyway, pulled inward by some unknown force. To find what he never did find out. Today, however, in this moment, he knew. 

 

It was not long before Jon reached the tombs of Ned, Robb and Lady Catelyn. Nearby, Rickon’s had been freshly dug, though only a slab of granite marked his resting place. Sadness began to fill the cavern of Jon’s chest as he came upon them one by one, finally stopping at the food of Eddard’s statue.  _ Father.  _ He could not bring himself to think of Lord Stark any other way. It had been so long since he had looked upon Ned Stark’s face, but Jon knew the stonemason could not rightly place the kindness of Lord Stark’s eyes. If he lingered upon Ned’s tomb, he might not muster the courage to move on. So Jon looked further down the passage, towards tombs unknown and space unexplored. He turned from Eddard’s tomb. 

 

Lyanna’s tomb was alight with flickering candle glow and shadows shifted across her grey, granite face. But it was not his mother’s face that caught his eye. Jon knelt, pulled off his gloves and gently touched a wreath of fresh winter roses laid at her feet.  _ Someone has been here _ . Jon picked up the wreath, and stood before his mother’s statue, his hands trembling. He exhaled and lifted the wreath to her head, crowning her as his father Rhaegar had once before him. His mind began to wander. Were her hands soft like a ladies or worn from riding? Was her laughter measured and sweet or boisterous and unrestrained? How much time did they have together before she left this world? Did she sing to him? A faint scuffle of a boot against cobblestone shook him from the labyrinth of questions. He turned only to find Arya. 

 

“Arya,” Jon could not cloak the surprise in his voice. Arya did not answer, but instead moved closer in silence. She was dressed a leather gambeson and leather jerkin. Her hair was slicked back, not unlike how Jon wore his, and she offered Jon a gentle smile as she took her place by his side. 

 

“Aunt Lyanna,” Arya raised a hand and touched the face of the statue. “Father always said she was more beautiful than this. This only makes her look lonely.”

 

“Father always said you were most like her,” Jon said as a sad, slanted smile crept across his face. He could not bring himself to look away from his mother’s cold, stony visage.“I don’t know who I’m like.” 

 

“Like Father,” Arya said confidently. _Like Father,_ _but which one? Was Rhaegar forlorn? Melancholic? Brooding? Did Rhaegar have the same sense of justice as father had?_ The two stood in the deafening silence before Lyanna’s statue until Arya broke it. “I know why you’re down here, Jon.”

 

“Then you know that’s not my name,” Jon said quietly and turned towards Arya _ ,  _ his grey eyes glinting with anger, sadness, confusion.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Arya said indignantly. “You don’t need to choose.” She moved toward Jon and placed her hand flat against his chest over the direwolf on his breastplate. “You’re a Stark,” she paused, her face searching Jon’s. “And you’re a Targaryen. And father…” Arya’s voice grew soft at the mention of Ned Stark. “... Will always be a part of you.” Jon looked down at his little sister, her great grey eyes pleading with him. He knew she was right. 

 

“He lied...” 

 

“To protect you.” Jon felt buoyed by the word:  _ Protect. _ Over the past couple of days, Jon was adrift in a violent, crashing sea, clinging to whatever remnant of the truth he could find. It was Dany who swam forward in his mind’s eye and her words beneath the heart tree. It was her truth then that kept him afloat.  

 

“Daenerys,” Jon said quietly into the dwindling candle glow. He did not know how to begin to explain, but he hoped that he would not have to. He hoped saying the name of the woman he loved aloud was enough for Arya to put together the pieces. Arya could see Jon try to wrestle with the irresolvable. 

 

“You love her.” Jon could tell it was not a question, but an observation. Jon gave a brusque, single nod. Words were wind and the love that had been borne between Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow could not be articulated with a mere ‘aye.’ It was then that the silence between the two was truncated by quick descending steps on the stone stairway. Shuffles echoed off the crypt walls. Jon squinted through the soft light but could see naught but a black silhouette hurrying down the passage. Before long the round form of Lord Varys appeared before them, his dark woolen robe lined in chestnut sable fur. Varys gave a low, graceful bow, his polished head made luminous with candle flame. 

 

“Forgive me, my lord, my lady. A raven just now from Castle Black,” he said breathlessly. His chest huffing with urgency. He handed Jon a scroll, it’s sealing wax hastily poured, but plain to see.  _ Lord Commander? This is from Castle Black.  _ Jon tore open the scroll.  _ This cannot be.  _ Jon reread the letter once more, then twice. 

 

“Jon? What is it?” Arya spoke, he voice quiet and pleading, but Jon could scarcely hear her over the din within his mind. “Jon,” she said again, this time loud enough the words echoed off the stone walls. 

 

“Arouse the lords, Lord Varys. Assemble them in the Great Hall,” Jon commanded.

 

“My lord, there is another matter. Last night during the feast--” Jon was already bounding down the passage for the steps. Arya and Varys followed.

 

“There is no time for that, my lord.” Jon called without looking back. He took the steps two at a time, bursting into the blinding dawn of Winterfell’s inner yard. Lost in his mind, it was halfway across the yard that he finally turned to Arya. “Find Sansa, and give her this. Hurry.” He handed the small scroll to Arya, knowing he need not tell her twice or why. 

 

“My lord, where are you going?” Varys stood in the middle of the muddy yard, his hands joined together almost in prayer. 

 

“To find Daenerys,” Jon shouted over his shoulder as he disappeared within the great keep. 

The northern lords filed into the great hall one by one, some clearly still lost in the throes of too much drink and not enough feast. Upon the dais Jon sat between Daenerys and Sansa. To the right of Dany sat Tyrion with his silver hand fastened to his crimson doublet, looking as though he’d seen a ghost. Dany stealthily outstretched her hand, clutching Jon’s hand for just a heartbeat before she began. 

 

“My Lords,” Dany said in greeting. The sea of northern lords bobbed and  _ ayed _ in reply. “A raven was received this morning from Castle Black.” murmurs from the lords drifted upward like gentle waves. “The Night King has turned my fallen dragon into a wight. The Wall has fallen. The Army of the Death marches south.” The waves came crashing down. A bevy of shouts rushed forward, pounding into the dais. Dany rose from her seat, both hands placed firmly on the table before her. “My lords,” she cried, her voice fierce. The sea ceased at her command. “My lords, please,” Dany said quieter though no less firm. “I know the long night comes but there is still some light left. I am a Targaryen, but I am not here to conquer the north like Aegon before me. I am here to  _ aid  _ the north. The only way we will find strength to defeat the Night King and his host is through unity.” With bated breath, Jon looked out across the dais and upon the northern lords. He had witnessed greater miracles within these stone halls than northern lords accepting a Targaryen Queen.  _ They named a bastard King in the North, after all.  _ It was the trill voice of little Lyanna Stark that stood to meet Dany first.  _ Smallest and boldest. _

 

“Your Grace, with all due respect, we know nothing of you but tales and whispers.” bawdy  _ ayes  _ and glowering stares rose up to meet Daenerys. The air shivered with tension. “Your family forged the Iron Throne, aye, but we have raised the King in the North. A Stark of Winterfell. Your own father murdered our liege lord and heir.” Lyanna’s voice was as assured and steadfast as the snows of winter. 

 

“My lady,” Dany began. “You are as fierce as your King said you would be.”

 

“I am a bear of House Mormont, You Grace. Our women are given both needles  _ and  _ swords. My own lady mother gave her life fighting beside Robb Stark, the Young Wolf.” The knights of house Mormont lifted their cups and proudly  _ ayed  _ in unison. “However,” her voice rang strong and true. “Until his last day, Jon Snow is my King... And if my King put his trust in you, there must be more to you than just tales and whispers, your Grace. You could have razed the north to the ground with your dragons.” Lyanna paused and looked about the room where she had the full attention of the lords. “You could have besieged Winterfell with your Dothraki and Unsullied,” she continued. “Many and more things could have come to pass, but instead you came to us alongside Jon Snow. Together.” Jon sat slumped back in his seat, his pulled back hair revealing grey eyes wide with apprehension. He glanced at Dany who sat still as a stone dragon. “My lords,” Lady Lyanna continued, “it was Jon Snow who refused to punish sons for the sins of the father…” Lyanna turned back toward the dais, her eyes intent on Daenerys. “You Grace, if Jon Snow put his trust in you...” she drew her sword from its scabbard and laid it across both palms, an offering for all to see, “House Mormont is with you.” The plunged the tip of the sword towards the ground, kneeling with it. Some knights of Bear Island raised their tankards, while others pounded on the table with horns full of ale and fists alike. Jon looked at Dany, but her face hardly ever betrayed her--only he had ever been able to disarm her so completely in front of others while she was queening.

 

“I pray I deserve your fealty, Lady Lyanna,” she dared not smile. The time had come for Jon to speak on his Queen’s behalf.

 

“My Lords,” the hearth blazed behind him as Jon looked out at the hardened northern lords.  _ Some have softened, some reluctant still.  _ “If we don’t put our enmities aside and band together we will die. Everything we have fought for. Every battle won. Every child born…,” he paused for a moment to swallow the lump in his throat.  _ Even my own child.  _ “It will be all for naught. You swore fealty to me, and now I ask you to trust in me once again. I am of the North and the North is within me. Never would I lead it astray. If we want to survive the Long Night, Queen Daenerys is the one to lead us.”  _ And now we wait…  _ One by one the lords of the great houses stood, unsheathed their swords and knelt before Daenerys in fealty. Jons heart swelled.  _ Not all are happy, but it's their swords not their hearts we need right now. They’ll come to see her for what she really is.  _

 

Daenerys rose once more, her white furs and silver hair in stark contrast with Jon’s onyx and browns. “My lords, you honor me and it is my wish to honor the north. My armies will fight beside you.  _ I  _ will fight beside you. But there is little and less time to prepare. Winterfell will soon be under siege. Every man and woman of fighting age will train. When they are not training they will be crafting raw dragonglass into arrowheads, daggers and spears.” Jon looked at his companions upon the dais. Sansa appeared reserved and askance, unwilling to give up any notion of inner thoughts. A sly grin had spread across Arya’s face, her grey eyes glinting and incandescent. Tyrion sat frozen, his eyes wide almost in disbelief. Davos caught Jon’s eye and nodded assuredly, Varys simply bowed his bald head in acknowledgement. 

 

“There is another thing, my lords,” Jon turned to Daenerys. She nodded silently, willing him to continue. “In five days hence Daenerys Targaryen and I will be joined together in marriage before the old gods of the North.” The room once more erupted into a raging sea. 


	14. As Your King Commands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime wrestles with the ghosts of his past, and watches as Jon comes into his crown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pretty hard to write as it attempts to wrestle with some pretty big moments and reveals to certain characters. I chose Jaime as POV not only because he needed to reveal a few things himself, but mainly because of his history with Rhaegar and knowing the truth about Jon already (from meeting Ned Dayne on the road to Winterfell). Enjoy, and as always, please feel free to leave feedback if you're compelled to do so. Thanks for reading!

**Jaime**

 

Although Jaime Lannister had been sequestered in his chamber for nigh upon three days, the Kingslayer was haunted by the roaming ghosts of Winterfell all the same. In his dreams the specters came to visit him one by one. First, poor Ned Stark, and then his lady wife-- their throats bloodied and slit. Finally the Young Wolf came to pay homage to Jaime: His auburn hair crowned as King in the North, but the comely head of the boy turned into a snarling grey wolf, its teeth bared and eyes narrowed. The wolf lunged at Jaime. The Kingslayer could feel the warmth of his own blood, could feel the hot breath of the wolf tearing his flesh. It was then that he woke.

Much and more had passed since Jaime and his companions had arrived in Winterfell, or so he had read. A new hastily scribbled notes slipped under his door were all he knew of the goings on: The northmen had bent the knee to the Targaryen girl, the Wall had fallen and the Night King raised a dragon wight. Jaime felt useless hulled up in the cramped chamber as he watched knights and household rush about the yard. Some trained while others assembled siegecraft and fortified defenses. They all looked like dead men to Jaime. On Jaime’s third night imprisoned in Winterfell Tyrion came.

“Tyrion?” Still shaken from his wolf dreams, Jaime pushed himself upright and reached for the golden hand on the table beside him. He began to fasten it to his wrist. His little brother sat next to a glowing brazier that broke the night’s silence with sizzles and snaps.

“Hello big brother. Bad dreams?” Jaime didn’t deign to answer.

“What hour is it?” Jaime swung his legs from the bed, the stone floor pleasantly warm. Winterfell was strange that way. He rose from the bed, naked as his name day, and padded over to the table where hot water and a plate of sliced lemons had been laid.

“Late,” Tyrion quipped, “or early.” Jaime poured himself a goblet of water and threw in a few slices of lemon. The steam wafted upwards, and smelled of tart citrus. A warmth that was most welcome after weeks on winter roads. “The Queen was told of you and your fellow travelers arrival. No doubt you’ve gathered as much already. It is on her orders you remain in here. Today however, her Grace requests an audience with you at first light.” Jaime took a long sip of his lemon water, letting the warmth rush through him. “Quite interesting company you are keeping these days, brother. A sellsword turned knight and a young lord far, far from home. How far is Dorne from Winterfell anyway?”

“Far enough,” Jaime sat himself down atop a cold, hard chair just across from his brother. The crackling brazier the only thing between them for the room was too small for any hearth. The brothers Lannister sat in silence for a moment longer.

“What happened, Jaime? Where are the armies? Why didn’t you send word?” Tyrion said finally.

“I’m here because I pledged to ride north, so I rode north.”

“And the armies?”

“Are not coming.” The weight of the words hung in the air like the apparitions of Jaime’s dream.

“Our sweet sister--” before Tyrion could finish the remark Jaime interjected.

“Hired the Golden Company. Euron Greyjoy sails for Essos, heralding the banisheds return to Westeros.”

“The Golden Company.” Tyrion shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Cersei’s transformation into the Mad Queen is truly complete then. All this talk of foreign, savage hordes to inspire patriotism in her lords and she turns around and hires a company of swaggering sellswords... generations removed from Westeros. The irony is poetic.”

“If _delusion_ can be poetic then Cersei is the greatest poet of our time.” Jaime hoped Tyrion would not pry further. He hoped the steely edge to his voice was enough to clue his brother into the truth, and the truth was that when he had left King’s Landing, not only did he leave the city behind, but the woman he had once loved. _Loved._ Cersei had always been ruthless, but even in her ruthlessness there had been vestiges of the girl he once knew when no one else was around. Either that woman was gone or it was Jaime himself who had changed. He supposed it didn’t matter either way.

“And what does our beloved poet mean to do with these sellswords? Retake the lands Daenerys secured? Fight the army of the dead should we fail?”

“I don’t know,” Jaime said. “Both I suppose.” Tyrion pondered this for a moment. Jaime looked out his window where the dawn began to crest in the east. Brilliant strokes of blazing pinks and oranges were painted across the sky. Jaime smiled to himself, _Dawn,_ he thought. Like the sword the boy carries.

“Is my angst so amusing, brother?” Tyrion said, smiling at Jaime.

“No. It’s just that... Dawn.” Jaime’s smile widened. The madness of it all was near too much to bear. He could not help but laugh.

“Yes, I believe there is one every morning.” Tyrion rose from his seat and padded over to the window. His little brother gazed out silently, almost longingly, but for what he knew not.

“You forget the Long Night, Tyrion.” _The Long Night, The Prince that was Promised._ The boy seemed mad after telling Jaime and Bronn everything Lord Reed told him. And yet somehow Jaime didn’t doubt him. “I need to speak with Jon Snow,” Jaime said suddenly, causing Tyrion to turn from the window.

“You’ll meet with the entire small council this morning. He’ll be there.”

“I need to speak with Jon alone.”

“Alone,” A quizzical look swept across Tyrion’s face. “Very well. But come. Before then, the Queen’s council awaits.”

Jaime dressed and followed his brother down twisting castle passages and across a bustling yard. Heads craned and followed him in amazement, their jaws agape. _They’re all too dumbfounded to attack me._ Tyrion led Jaime though the great hall which sat empty and into a small room, the entrance to which sat behind the crude, northern styled dais. The Starks had little and less love for pageantry. The room was sparsely furnished and dark save for a long table littered with maps, melted candles and quills--evidence of someone laboring long into the night. Stones painted blue surrounded an elaborate mark-up of Winterfell. _They plan for an attack._ It was Bronn who Jaime noticed first as stood next to to hearth. Lord Dayne stood next to him and was clad in a deep purple doublet littered with rhinestones that sparkled like stars against a night sky. Both nodded at Jaime as he entered with Tyrion. Lord Varys sat at one end of the long wooden table. Ser Jorah Mormont hovered above his seat and Jaime could see unease spread across his face like greyscale as they eyed each other. As Jaime ended his survey of the room he spotted a familiar face lingering in the shadows with Tyrion’s old squire Podrick… _Brienne._ Jamie felt as though the world had been pulled from under him.

_Fuck loyalty._ Those were among the last words Brienne had told Jaime in the Dragon Pit. Jaime could not place what he felt at that moment. The Lady of Tarth warned him, even pleaded with him to abandon his false pretenses of loyalty, and in the depths of Jaime’s mind he knew she was right. That Jaime Lannister rode from King’s Landing to Winterfell was proof enough that Brienne was right. _It is vulnerability she makes me feel. I might as well be marched naked from Visenya’s Hill to the Red Keep._ It was not an emotion Jaime Lannister was used to having. The two locked eyes. Whatever Jaime had left of his shield was completely shattered. He was laid bare. Jaime started for her but before he took another step those around the table rose as Lady Arya and Lady Sansa entered, followed by Ser Davos and Jon Snow. And behind Jon…

“Your Grace,” Brienne said and bowed. _Not a curtsey,_ Jaime mused. The last time Jaime saw the Dragon Queen she was clad in Targaryen Black and Red. Today Daenerys Looked softer, her hair was loose about her face and she wore white furs rather than black. _Like Snow_ , Jaime thought amused. He watched as Daenerys took her place at the head of the long wooden table. Tyrion to her right, Jon to her left. The rest of the room took their places.

“The siege preparations are well underway, your Grace,” Tyrion spoke first, but Daenerys looked uninterested in discussing siegecraft in that moment.

“And what of our grain stores, Maester Wolkan?”

“With our added armies, I’m afraid our stores have been cut by half, your Grace. The freefolk have foraged a certain root they use to make a type of flour when grain stores run out. I am told they preserve well, but don’t taste--”

“Thank you, Maester. And the glass garden harvests,” Daenerys interjected.

“The first two are ready to harvest, your Grace. The rest are planted in a staggered manner so that we may have a constant harvest. Unfortunately it is not enough for all mouths at a single time, but enough to avoid the bloody gums so often rampant in winter.”

“Good. Distribute rations among Wintertown first and schedule rotations for glass garden harvests to be distributed.” Daenerys folded her hands and set them gently on the table in front of her. “Now. Lord Hand, please introduce Winterfell’s new guests.” Tyrion cleared his throat.

“My lords, you may have noticed a few new faces among us. Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall and mine own brother,” all heads turned toward Jaime, “Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock.” It was the Kingslayer alone who stood and bowed.

“Your Grace.”

“My lord, you have honored your pledge. I apologize for the cold welcome. You cannot blame us for being cautious.”

“The fault is mine. I should have sent word.”

“Yes,” Daenerys said harshly. “You should have.”

“I dare not risk having a raven intercepted.”

“And what would that raven have said?”

“Betrayal,” the word rushed from Jaime like water from a dam during spring floods. Even as he said it, he could scarce believe it. Scarce believe that there was no returning to Cersei. If the faces in the room were surprised they hid it well.

“I see,” Daenerys said coolily. “Your sister sold us falsehoods.”

“Sold them and purchased The Golden Company. 20,000 sellswords from Essos being ferried across the Narrow Sea by Euron Greyjoy’s fleet.”

“And who commands the Golden Company, my lord?” Daenerys’ voice was sharp freshly whetted steel. It was Varys who spoke up this time.

“Harry Strickland and Jon Connington. Harry’s great-grandsire sided with the Black Dragon, Daemon Blackfyre. His family has been in exile since. Jon Connington until recently was believed to have drunk himself to death after his own exile-- the result of failing to slay Robert Baratheon at the Battle of the Bells.” Daenerys sat forward at the usurper's name.

“Robert Baratheon...”

“Oh yes, your Grace, Jon Connington was Hand to your father for a short while. But more importantly he was a dear friend to Prince Rhaegar. The Prince slain by Robert Baratheon whom Jon failed to suppress.”

“You presume Lord Connington assumes responsibility for failing my brother? Ser Jorah,” Daenerys turned her attention to the grizzled old bear. “You were with the Golden Company for a time. What do you know of Jon Connington?”

“I was, Khaleesi.” Jaime had not heard that style of address before and could not place the strange sounding lilt of the word. “The Golden Company has never broken contract, but Jon is a good and honorable man and his love for your brother is known. He was not with the Golden Company while I was fighting with them.”

“Might this Jon Connington fight for Rhaegar’s sister?” Tyrion said, looking down the table at Ser Jorah. Jaime could hear the desperation in his brother’s voice. It was Daenerys who answered.

“Viserys hosted the Golden Company captains while were beggars in Essos. They ate our food, heard our pleas and laughed at us. But you heard Lord Varys. Jon was presumed dead for many years. Perhaps he could sway the company to swear allegiance to the last of the Targaryens.” _It is Targaryens she says, not Targaryen._

“Sellswords only swear allegiance to gold,” Lady Sansa spoke up, her voice holding back thinly veiled frustration. “This is folly, my lords. The Golden Company will not abandon the Iron Bank’s gold and promises of the empty castles for the sister of a prince long since parted.”

“No, but they might for Rhaegar’s son.” It was the voice of Jon Snow. The young Lord Dayne had told Jaime the tale of Rhaegar and Lyanna on the road north, but hearing admission from Jon turned legend into something tangible. Here sat the heir of Rhaegar Targaryen. The thought littered Jaime’s skin with goose prickles. _Rhaegar. More god than man._ He could see some around the table knew of Jon’s great secret, while others did not. Jaime could see Brienne’s eyes widen as well as Ser Jorah’s… And Tyrion. Only once before had Jaime seen Tyrion look so.

“Rhaegar’s son...” Tyrion said quietly as he looked across from where he sat at Jon.

“Aye,” Jon stood. “My Lords, I have not been forthright.” Jaime could see the Jon fight the words, like hacking through brush with a longsword. He appeared overwrought and his northern burr was thick with unease. “Upon my arrival at Winterfell,” Jon paused and looked to Arya. Lady Stark nodded reassuringly at Jon. “It was revealed to me that I am not the bastard son of Eddard Stark. I am the trueborn son of Lady Lyanna Stark,” Jon took a deep breath, “and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.” The room had gone still as a coppice on a windless day.

“Why was this news not brought forward sooner? Why was no one told?” Tyrion asked quietly, his voice breathless and tense.

“The time was not right,” Jon said firmly. Of stature, Jon was not large, but it was clear to Jaime that the bastard boy he saw those years ago was gone. The man in his stead who entered the dragon pit, despite his grey Stark eyes, was the son of Rhaegar, that much Jaime could clearly see now. Jaime sat in wonderment as he watched it unfold before him.

“And when would be the right time?” A bit of frustration had entered Tyrion’s voice. Jaime could see Daenerys eyes flicker and narrow at the sound of it. _She is defensive of Jon._

“Now, Lord Hand. Now is the right time. Ser Jorah, you will take a host of Dothraki back to White Harbor. There you will board a ship to Essos. I will send word ahead to the castellan of New Castle in White Harbor. In Essos you will try to intercept the Golden Company... Tell them Rhaegar’s son and heir lives.” It was the measured drawl of Lord Varys that rose up to answer Jon.

“My Lor-- Your Grace,” Varys smiled and bowed his head towards Jon. “If a company of sellswords is going to break contract, they’ll need more than just the word of an old knight. They will need _proof._ ”

“Then they will have it.” Jon pulled two yellowed scrolls of parchment from his cloak and placed them on the table. Tyrion grabbed them. His eyes widened as he unrolled the first and then the second.

“My, lord?” Varys called from the other end of the table.

“It’s an annulment,” Tyrion said, his voice dripping with bewilderment. “It’s an annulment and a letter. A letter dated 283 AC from Dorne. Signed by Eddard… and Lyanna Stark. It is addressed to-”

“Aegon.” Daenerys said. “It is addressed to Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name.” Jaime looked to Jon who’s face had gone icy and pale. _He is still at war with himself_ . _He does not want any of this, but he will do it if it means the safety of his people._ Finally the Lord Hand set the letter down gently and with deliberation, as if it were a suckling babe or a precious gem.

“Ser Jorah,” Tyrion said, unable to cloak the consternation in his voice. “You will ready your retinue and prepare for the journey to Essos. You will do as your King commands.”


	15. By Ice and Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a graphic depiction of self-harm.

 

**Howland**

_It will soon be over,_ Howland Reed thought. He could see it now, though barely visible through the white curtain of falling snow. The choppy water lapped angrily against the hull of his small wooden skiff, and his arms ached with each row.  _Over, over, over,_ each row seemed to sing as the oar splashed into the cold water. It had been near twenty and three years since Howland Reed made this voyage across the lake, and he knew his journey must end as it began: Upon the Isle of Faces.

He made land soon enough but didn't bother to tie off his skiff.  _I will not need it._ Howland heaved a small leather sack up onto his shoulder and clambered up over the hillside towards the center of the isle. He spied a lone black figure perched atop a low hanging branch. He had not forgotten the way.

"Hello, friend," Howland called. The figure  _quarked_ in return, spread its black wings and took flight deep into the forest. Howland smiled.  _I have not heard the True Tongue for many a year,_ he thought as he trudged further into the Isle. The way was overgrown with moss and flora of all sorts: Ferns, ivy, shrubs and trees still green for the old magic of the isle had forbidden winter from entering. The Children still sang their songs of earth and bound the isle in an old magic; Howland could feel it coursing through him with each step. Magic long forgotten by Westeros. Stone hedges lined the path, carved upon them were ancient runes and symbols of the Children, though most prominent was a single spiral: the eye of God.  _It is not much further._ If Howland lacked the sight, he would not have heard the Children hiding in the canopies and among the hedges… But Howland was among the last Green Men and he could decipher the songs of the Children that sounded like mere whispers upon a breeze to others.

"He has returned."

"Winter is here."

"The Others come."

"The Great Other circles closer."

"The Hero must come."

"Snow. Snow. Snow." The songs of the children seemed to weave together like dancers at a tourney feast.  _Like Ashara at Harrenhal._ It was a sad thought, and Howland pushed it further from his mind's eye. The weirwood groves grew thicker as Howland drove deeper into the Isle and soon the Lord of Greywater Watch was surrounded by blinding whites and deep, brilliant reds. He stopped suddenly as he rounded upon a lone figure standing beneath the great heart tree. He had reached the center of the isle.

"Hello, Leaf," said Howland quietly as he inched closer.

"Hello, Howland Reed. You have finally returned."

"Winter is here," Howland said. Leaf merely nodded and turned toward the great heart tree. Other Children crept from the forest, slow and suspiciously. Leaf put her arm through a hollow in the side of the tree and from it pulled a small dagger.  _Dragonglass,_ Howland observed.

"You have done well, Howland Reed. You were our champion among men. Because of you the song of ice and fire came into the world of men once more."

"He is ready." Howland said, firmly.

"He is," agreed Leaf, her strange lilt like wind rustled leaves. "The Hero to end the long night. Do you remember when we told you of him, those many years past?" Howland nodded. The Crown Prince had come to Harrenhal to discuss his father's descent into madness with the lords of Westeros under the guise of a great tourney. Little did Rhaegar know there were greater machinations at work. The Children sacrificed much and more to produce the false spring that year. Had the snows not melted enough for the Stark children to bestir themselves from Winterfell, Lyanna might never have happened upon Howland. Further still, she might never have donned the shield of the laughing tree, and never have heard Rhaegar's song. But the magic worked, the snow melted, and Lyanna met Rhaegar. Despite knowing the Hero would result in their union, Howland looked back upon it all with a great, overwhelming sadness.  _Too many were lost. The boy himself suffered much._

"Jon Snow had to be born, Howland Reed. Though the costs were great and dear, the Great Other now casts his shadow over the world," Leaf said, as though she could read Howland's thoughts. "The old gods watch over him. And the strange red god. They will lead him here soon. But now the time has come. Brandon Stark needs us. He needs your magic." Howland nodded and stepped forward toward Leaf.

As he lowered himself down to kneel before the heart tree, faces flashed in his mind's eye. His wife, his children, Ned Stark, Lady Ashara, Lyanna, and the baby Jon… Ghosts of his past. Howland closed his eyes, outstretched a single palm and touched the tree. Visions of past and future alike flooded his mind. A baby black of hair, Jon with Lightbringer held aloft, Daenerys, dragon fire, a bed of blood, a baby black of hair, Jon with Lightbringer held aloft… over and over the visions reeled past him. Howland opened his eyes.

"I am ready," he said softly to Leaf. Howland had seen this moment many times and more, but it was the heartache he was not prepared for. He did not know what was on the other side of life, but he longed to see his wife once more, and sweet Jojen.  _I am ready._

Howland's heart seemed to burst from his chest as Leaf handed him the dragon glass dagger. The Children began to sing. Their voices sounded of splintering ice and a roaring fire. Howland remembered this song. It was the song of ice and fire.

"Remember your pledge, Howland!" Leaf shouted through the cacophony. "Remember!" Howland brought the dagger down to his upturned wrist.

"By earth and by water. By bronze and by iron," he dug the dagger into his wrist and dragged it upward towards his elbow, cutting a long straight line in his arm. Blood gushed from the wound. The children sang louder still. With all the strength that was left in him, Howland exchanged the dagger in his hands. "By ice and by fire." He brought the dagger down upon his other arm, his hand slick and warm with his own blood. Thick, red blood burst from his arm where the dragon glass dagger had cut a path. Howland dropped the dagger to his side. His mind went black and the cold ground rose up to meet him.


	16. The Songs the Gods Sing

**Daenerys**

 

The two dragons were nestled beneath a jagged outcropping as they feasted on the charred remains of some quadruped. Around the rocks the snow had melted and blackened, scorched earth now encircled their new lair. Daenerys watched as they used their dagger-like teeth to rip apart flesh and crunch through bone as though it were a lemon cake. Drogon turned and snapped at Rhaegal as the latter attempted to sneak a bite from his brother. Rhaegal hissed and retreated back to his own meal, defeated. Daenerys smiled, amused.  _ They squabble like siblings.  _ But the thought pulled her back to the frozen lake and Viserion as he lifelessly dipped below its surface. Sadness washed over her.  _ There are two where three used to be. The dragon no longer has three heads.  _ She pushed the thought from her mind.  _ If I look back I am lost.  _ Rhaegal lurched forward toward Daenerys, his green and bronze head lowered in an attempt to solicit attention from his mother. Obligingly, Dany ungloved her hand and stroked the end of his snout; his smooth scales swam beneath her fingers.  _ Like pebbles in a stream.  _ Rhaegal’s eyes blinked and softened and the dragon let out a low, throaty purr. 

 

“Alright, you,” Dany said as she lowered her hand. Rhaegal retreated back to the foot of the outcropping. She approached Drogon. Finished with his meal, the dragon had nestled against the stone formation and laid his head atop a single crooked wing. He was asleep. Despite knowing better than to wake a sleeping dragon, Dany inched closer and gently brushed her fingers against his black scales. The dragon twitched but did not rouse.  _ He grieves as well.  _

 

Overhead, an ominous sky promised snow and the sun dipped lower in the west.  _ They’ll be needing me soon.  _ As she lingered to look upon her dragons before turning back toward Winterfell, something from within the rock caught her eye.  _ No, it is the rock itself _ . Dany stepped closer still and raked her mind, but was certain it hadn’t been there before. Quietly, she snaked her way between the coiled dragons toward the rock. She wedged herself into a crevice she had not noticed before, willing herself small enough to fit. Daenerys' drew in a quick breath. Her heart jittered inside her. Carved upon the stone, a scene of images opened up before her not unlike those she and Jon discovered in the dragonglass caves. But these were illuminated. _It was the glow that caught my eye._ As if something from within the rock was alive. Eyes wide, Dany brushed her hand over the images. A spiral, a circle sliced in two by a straight line, men, white walkers, children of the forest and then she saw it…  

 

“Jon?” Daenerys did not know if she said it aloud or not. Though the image was crudely etched from the rock, it was unmistakable. A cloaked figure stood: his hair curly, black and loose about his face, with a flaming sword held aloft. Behind him a field of orange, red and yellow spirals emanated light as faint as a rising dawn. Dany outstretched her hand and softly touched the figure’s face. She pulled her hand away and rubbed the gritty lichen from her fingers.  _ It cannot be. These have been here for some time.  _ To the right of the figure stood a weirwood, and at its base, a great white wolf whose eyes glowed red. Unable to bring herself to part with the wolf, a chill crept up Daenerys’ spine.  _ It's as though he sees me.  _

 

Outside her palfrey suddenly whinnied and Dany jumped. She peered out from between the rock and could see the sky had began to let loose of its contents. She extracted herself from the narrow opening and laid a hand atop Drogon’s back as she walked past.

 

“I'll come back soon,” she said as the dragon sleepily shifted and let out a low rumble. In a single, swift motion, Dany hoisted herself atop her alabaster palfrey and spurred it onward. 

 

Dany seemed to drift past the bustle of the yard as she made way to her chamber, unable to erase the images or the feeling from the rock from her mind. Her face was flush from the cold of the ride, her hair windswept and wild.  _ There is still time though.  _ T he sun had not dipped below the horizon as far as she could tell. Dany swept past the sentry Unsullied at her chamber door, closing it behind her. Dany jumped again. She had not expected company. 

 

“Lady Sansa,” Dany said, startled. 

 

“Your Grace,” Sansa said, dipping into an effortless curtsy. Dany swung her riding cloak from her shoulders, placing it in a trunk at the foot of her bed. 

 

“What can I do for you, my lady?” Dany poured two goblets of red to calm her nerves and handed one to Sansa who took it appreciatively.  _ She even sips wine gracefully,  _ Dany noted amusedly. 

 

“Nothing, Your Grace. Only…” she set her goblet down, and paused for a moment to search for something within her cloak. From the furred folds she produced a small wooden box, on its lid was the sigil of House Stark, inlaid in silver and iridescent pearl. “Only that I ask you to accept this,” Sansa offered the box to Dany. 

 

“It’s beautiful,” Dany said softly. “May I?” she asked before she removed the lid. Sansa only nodded. Gently folded inside was a single white ribbon. Intrigued, Dany set the box down and lifted its contents, letting it unfurl before her. Stitched onto the ribbon were three dragons of House Targaryen.  _ Red dragons on a field of white. No, on a field of snow. It is a northern handfast ribbon.  _ Dany stiffened. 

 

“Sansa,” Dany said, her voice almost a whisper. Words had escaped Dany, carried off by the winter winds. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.” 

 

“You don’t need to say anything,” Sansa said warmly. A shy smile bloomed across her face. “I made it for you and Jon, but I wanted to show you before tonight.” Dany returned the ribbon to the box, delicately placed the lid on top and handed it back to Sansa. Suddenly, she was acutely aware of wetness on her cheeks. Dany flushed: She had not realized she was crying.

 

“Thank you,” Dany said again, overcome with gratitude. She had not even allowed herself to expect acceptance from Sansa. Yet here Sansa stood, offering Daenerys something only Jon had dared offer: A place to belong. 

 

“Tonight you become family,” Sansa said returning the box to her cloak. “My father always said the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.” The Lady of Winterfell looked out the window where a faint pink glow had replaced the gray winter skies. 

 

“Together.” Dany said, her voice wavering. Sansa smiled, but before she could answer a soft knock sounded at the door. Dany beckoned the guest to enter and watched as swung the door open revealing Missandei. The adviser entered the solar with a look of slight bewilderment. 

 

“I’ll see you in the godswood,” Sansa said, and shot the Queen a final soft smile before she disappeared into the corridor. 

 

“What have you done to your braids, my queen?” Missandei tsked reproachfully as she closed the door. 

 

“I went to see my dragons,” Dany sat herself down on the cushioned bench as Missandei began to undo her braids with lithe, dexterous fingers. “Missandei,” Dany finally asked. Her hair was undone and cascaded down her back like a moonlit waterfall. 

 

“Yes, Khaleesi.”

 

“Do you believe in gods? And magic?” Dany could see Missandei’s quizzical expression in the looking glass as she pondered the questions.

 

“Well, I believe in you, Khaleesi. You make impossible things happen. But we all serve different gods. In Naath we serve the Lord of Harmony. In Volantis they serve the Lord of Light. Here in the north they have their trees. Magic and gods are the same. They depend on believers. Where there are more believers, the stronger the gods are.”

 

“You think people will gods into existence?” Missandei began to brush Danys hair with soft, even strokes as she had done a thousand times and more. 

 

“No. But there is a reason we worship them. There is a reason for sacrifices and offerings. I think gods are the creators of magic. If that is what you want to call it. We do not have such a word on Naath.” Dany’s mind was pulled back to the etching in the rock and to Jon and the wolf. 

 

“What do you call inexplicable things on Naath if not magic?” Missandei stopped brushing for a moment as she searched her expansive inner lexicon. 

 

“There is no direct translation in the common tongue or even Valyrian. But if there was one it might be ‘the-songs-the-gods-sing.’” Missandei began to braid Dany’s hair and Dany descended into a labyrinth of thought.  _ Songs of the gods. What did the red priestess call it? The song of ice and fire. The sword I saw today. It was aflame. Songs and magic and gods and prophecy. Only death can pay for life.  _ Dany instinctively brought a hand to her womb.  _ Khaleesi.  _ But Dany wanted to stay in the labyrinth.  _ Khaleesi,  _ again, though this time louder. Finally Dany swam forward and broke the surface, her thoughts of prophecy and magic disappearing like snow beneath dragonfire. 

 

“Khaleesi, it’s time,” Missandei said. Dany examined herself in the looking glass. Her hair was simply done. Two braids tied together at the base of her neck. The rest of her silver hair undone and in loose waves. It was perfect. “The sun has set. Jon will be waiting for you in the godswood.”


	17. Ābrazȳrys

**Jon**

 

“What if I forget the words,” Sam moaned as the two brothers and Ser Davos entered the godswood. The sun was setting, and a grey mist had settled in. It swirled as the two cut through it, parting and then viscously coming to a close behind them. 

“I trust you.” Jon clapped a hand against Sam’s back and grinned reassuringly. Jon liked to watch the mist as they pressed on further into the wood, and he mused in silence on the days happenings. He adjusted his tunic and ran a hand through his loose, black curls. He felt naked without his furs and cloak, but Sansa insisted he wear Stark whites. Jon couldn’t remember the last time he wore anything but black. Sansa had also told Jon that sleeping in the same room as Daenerys in the eve of their wedding would bring ill fortune for their marriage. So that morning, Jon woke in a strange, lumpy bed across the castle from Daenerys’ chambers:  _ For good fortune,  _ Sansa had insisted. Thus far good fortune felt like was a stiff back and aching limbs. 

“Jon?” Sam had stopped along the path, his eyes fixed ahead toward the center of the godswood. Jon peered through the brush and trees and could see it too. The leaves of the heart tree were flickering. Jon could make out the reds and whites as they danced against the shadows. He quickened his step, wordlessly urging Sam and Davos to hasten behind him. As he neared the heart tree, Jon could finally see what was making the red leaves dance among the shadows: Lanterns. Two dozen or so had been lit, creating a sparkling path to the weirwood, each scintillated in the dark like a single star in the night sky. In front of the tree stood Tyrion Lannister. 

“Tyrion,” Jon said rather quietly. “Did you do all this?” 

“Add it to the list of things I’m guilty of,” Tyrion chortled. Jon felt a surge of gratitude within him, it spread from his chest and outward, washing over him like a wave. He knew it was Tyrion’s apology. 

“Thank you,” he said softly. Tyrion rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably as he fumbled for the words. 

“ I want you to know…” Tyrion inhaled and exhaled, his breath billowing and white like dragon smoke. “I want you to know that I was wrong about you and Daenerys. You and her. It would seem as though the gods have fashioned you for each other. They have fashioned you both to move forward in life together.” Jon’s face remained indecipherable. He drew a breath to answer Lord Tyrion, but the snapping of twigs made both their heads turn back up the path. Sansa, Arya and Bran all appeared like specters through the grey mist. Behind them, Varys and Missandei. Tyrion outstretched his hand and patted Jon’s back. “It appears our Queen approaches.” 

“You’re ready, lad,” Davos embraced Jon and landed a few genial pats on the back. The Onion Knight and Tyrion took their places among the siblings Stark, Varys and Missandei. Jon noticed that Tyrion had taken a place next to Lady Sansa, the latter smiling softly as he approached. It was then that Jon could make out two silhouettes through the darkened mist and a single, bouncing light. With a lantern in one hand, and Daenerys arm linked in his other, Ser Jorah had come to offer his Khaleesi in marriage. 

The sight of Daenerys among the lit lanterns sent Jon’s heart racing to his throat, each beat rang in his ears. He took a deep breath, in and out, unable to take his eyes off his Queen. Daenerys’ hair glowed pale and silver as the moonlight broke through the canopy. Her amethyst eyes glinted.  _ One step, two steps, three steps.  _ Ser Jorah and Dany slowly approached Jon and Sam at the foot of the weirwood. 

“Who comes before the old gods this night?” Sam stepped forward and asked. Jorah unlinked his arm from Daenerys’ and stepped toward Jon and Sam, his lantern still aloft. 

“Queen Daenerys of the House Targaryen comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn, and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods.” Jorah’s voice struggled through each word. “Who comes to claim her?”  His gravelly voice wavering like a leaf. It was Jon’s turn to take a step. Carefully, deliberately, he took it. He drew in a deep breath.

“Aegon of House Targaryen, sixth of his name.” He paused. “Heir to the Iron Throne. Who gives her?” 

“Jorah of House Mormont,” Jon watched the lump that had nested itself Ser Jorah’s throat grow larger. By his side, Daenerys had gone rigid, her eyes welled with tears and her stuttered breaths sent ripples of white into the cold northern air. 

“Queen Daenerys,” Sam said. “Will you take this man?” Daenerys stepped forward, the skirts of her white gown swished, and the snow below her feet crunched. 

“I will.” Daenerys let out a quiet sob, unable to contain herself any longer. She smiled at Jon as silent tears fell. Jon wanted to hold her, wanted to kiss the tears from her face. 

“And will you, Aegon, take this woman?” Jon had always been determined, deliberate and dutiful, but doubt had always festered alongside it all. Even when he bested his brother Robb in sums and swords, even when he was Lord Commander, and even now as King in the North... But here and now Jon had never been more certain. 

“I will,” Jon said, his voice low and unwavering. 

“Please join hands.” Sam fumbled in his cloak and produced the ribbon while Jon took Dany’s hand in his. Her hands were warm and soft and for a brief moment he thought of the first time he had felt them. A lifetime ago it now seemed. “I bind you Daenerys Targaryen, and you Aegon Targaryen together before the old gods.” Sam wrapped the ribbon about their clasped hands. It felt liquid and cold on his skin. “May the old gods of the forest curse those who would try and break this bond.” Jon looked upon Dany once more, their eyes meeting. Her cheeks were flushed and wet, her lips full and slightly parted, her breast rose and fell slowly through labored breaths.  _ My wife.  _ Sam unwound the handfasting ribbon and handed it to Jon. “You may now seal your union with a kiss,” he said. A wide smile grew across Dany’s face and Jon could contain himself no longer. With two calloused hands he grabbed Daenerys and pulled her close, their mouths meeting for the first time as husband and wife. 

The feast rushed past Jon like a dream. The well-wishers, the lords and ladies, all seemed to inhabit some distance space. Even the food tasted strange and his thirst seemed unquenchable. He could think of nothing other and Daenerys. Under the table Dany placed a hand upon his thigh and slowly drew it upward. Jon drew in a quick breath and met her hand with his. 

“Dany…” he whispered. 

“Your Queen commands you bed her,” she flashed a smile toward Jon and inched her hand ever upward. 

“Alright,” Jon laughed, took a gulp of wine and stood. The great hall fell silent. “My lords,” Jon’s voice boomed outward. The drunken crowd swayed before him like a gentle, rolling sea. “My Queen wishes to retire. Any man who attempts to bed her will find himself at the other end of my longsword.”

“That’s where you’ll find the Queen tonight too!” A burst of laughter and jeers rose up, but the smiles died when Jon nodded to a pair of Unsullied. They dragged the drunken hedge knight out of the hall on his heels as he pleaded mercy. Someone shouted  _ The King’s Justice  _ from the crowd and another wave of laughter crashed over the northern lords and knights. Jon rose to leave, the sounds and smells of his wedding feast faded further into the night. 

Jon climbed the steps to he and Daenerys’ chamber in solemn silence. The man had sobered up quickly when Jon drew Longclaw from its sheath. He fell to his knees, groveled and begged for his life.  _ Please, Your Grace. Mercy,  _ the man cried.  _ Find him a place in the dungeons tonight. He can sober up there,  _ Jon had said. He was not about to kill a man on his wedding night.  _ Curse him _ . 

It was two Dothraki on guard tonight outside the chamber door. Jon nodded his way past them and entered. The hearth in the solar had been lit, and littered about the tables were dozens of softly flickering candles. The room was silent save for the crackles and pops of the hearth. 

“Dany?” Jon called out. He was met with silence. “Daenerys?” A soft creak in the floorboard sounded, and through the bedchamber threshold appeared Daenerys.  _ Seven hells.  _ Her hair was undone and tucked away behind her shoulders, but about her body was a gown Jon had never seen before. He could do nothing but stare. It was deep and violet colored and made of samite. A golden band was cinched about her waist. His eyes moved upward from her waist…  _ The gown covers a single breast.  _

“Rytsas, valzȳrys,” the liquid Valyrian poured from Danys mouth like sweet honey as she moved toward Jon. The gown seemed to glisten in the firelight as she moved. As Daenerys drew close to Jon, she began to unbuckle his sword belt and let it drop to the floor lifelessly with a clatter. “Gūrogon bisa hen,” she said, this time removing the tunic up and over his shoulders. Jon lifted the folds of Danys skirts, and found the wetness between her thighs, but Daenerys pulled his hand away. “Umbagon,” she whispered. “Wait.” A coy smile flashed across her face. 

One by one, the buckles came undone and Dany slid Jon’s trousers to the ground. “Call me, ñuha ābrazȳrys.” 

“A-a-ābrazȳrys,” Dany giggled as Jon stumbled over the Valyrian word with his thick norther burr. He said it once more and softly planted a kiss on Daenerys’ collarbone. 

“Again,” she said breathless. Jon could see her chest begin to heave. 

“Ābrazȳrys,” Jon moved his mouth lower toward her bared breast, laying a trail of gentle kisses. 

“Again.”

“Ābrazȳrys.” Jon took her breast in his mouth, and once again began to lift Dany’s skirts. This time she did not protest. A soft groan escaped Dany as Jon entered her with his fingers and explored her sex. Dany lifted his head from her breast to kiss him. It was rough, and deep as if nothing could satiate her. Jon removed his hands from under her skirts and lifted Daenerys, her legs wrapping around him as he carried her to the bed. 

Jon laid Daenerys atop the bed, her skirts were piled in jumble about her waist, leaving her exposed and naked to him. Still standing, he grabbed ahold of her legs and entered her in a single, swift motion. Daenerys lifted her hips and ground herself into Jon, her head tilted back in euphoria as she cried out in Valyrian once more…

Trembling, his curls mussed, and glistening with sweat, Jon lowered himself to the bed and brought Daenerys to lay next to him. The violet colored gown splashed across his naked lap. Though Jon had come to love many things about Daenerys, it was these moments he savored most. The quiet glimpses of a life the might have lived. 

“Dany,” Jon said, still holding Daenerys. He lowered his chin to his chest to meet her eyes. “What was the word you made me say?” A smile blossomed across Dany’s face. 

“Ābrazȳrys,” she paused, letting the strange word hover over them for a moment, “is High Valyrian for wife.” 


	18. The Song of Ice and Fire

 

**Melisandre**

 

Night was descending quickly, and Melisandre of Asshai quickened her steps. The cobbled streets were emptied of their contents save for the lamplighters or a hathay being driven here and there. In the distance an elephant trumpeted and whips cracked. The city itself seemed to be subdued, its rich scents tempered by an unusually cool northern breeze. “These north winds carry bad luck upon them,” spat the captain of the carrack _Devotion_ as they made port. Melisandre agreed with the salted old man, but said little and less.

The soft glow of the lamps comforted Melisandre, and she was thankful for their guiding light. _R'hllor light the way, for the night is dark and full of terrors. The Great Other searches for your servants here tonight._ A gust of wind wound down the alleyway and Melisandre clutched her red robe tighter about herself. Her deep auburn hair shrouded in shadow by a billowing hood. Each step more desperate, more deliberate than the last. But she would soon be in a place where the Great Other could not enter and the thought battled the chill trying to take seed within her.  

The plaza of the Temple of the Lord of Light was still save for a the red warriors standing in silent vigil over braziers that struggled to stay lit as the wind whirled about. Great red banners with flaming hearts flapped and thudded. Melisandre bounded across the stone plaza towards the temple; its oranges, reds and yellows beckoned her closer. _Come and seek our warmth,_ they seemed to say. Two red warriors of the Fiery Hand blocked the entrance, barring Melisandre.

“Who seeks the light of R’hllor?” One asked. His copper skin glowed in the firelight, and Melisandre could see the flame tattoos spread across the apples of his cheeks.

“Melisandre of Asshai.” The two servants of the Fiery Hand nodded curtly, turned and pushed the heavy iron doors open. A black passageway opened up to Melisandre, and she could see fire glow at the end where the Great Light was kept eternally lit. _Like looking down a dragon’s throat._ Melisandre gave her thanks and entered the red temple. The doors crashed to a close behind her.

It took but a moment for Melisandre’s eyes to adjust to the dim light of the passageway. Doors lined the passageway, but they were not for Melisandre to open… not day. Three-tiered candelabras hung from the ceiling, each tier encircled in crackling flame. As though waiting for her arrival, the high priestess greeted Melisandre with a graceful bow. The blood red ruby about her throat drank in the firelight.

“Melisandre of Asshai, welcome,” she said in High Valyrian.

“Kinvara. Light of Truth,” Melisandre removed her hood and bowed her head before the high priestess.

“I have foreseen your coming in the flames for some time now. Come. You must be tired from your journey.” Kinvara turned and made way down the passage. Melisandre followed and took place by her side. The two servants of the Lord of Light wound their way up a narrow stone stairwell. Had the temple been smaller, it would have seemed to bustle as cloaked acolytes moved about devoutly. large as it was, but the great structure seemed to swallow each and every servant within it. Kinvara led Melisandre to a large solar. A large iron brazier stood unlit in the center of the room, and shelves lined with vials and flasks encircled it. Many and more years had passed since Melisandre had stepped into the Red Temple, and for a moment she felt herself still a frightened child. Kinvara walked to a table littered with talismans, scrolls and quills and poured two goblets of dark red liquid. It smelled metallic and sour. Kinvara outstretched her arm, silently offering the goblet to Melisandre. With both hands, Melisandre took it and drank deep. As the liquid descended, it seemed to fill Melisandre with a blazing warmth. _R’hllor, fill me with your fires. Wash away the darkness._ As Melisandre emptied the contents of the goblet, Kinvara looked upon her with satisfaction.

“Good. Light the fire.” Melisandre gathered a flint stone from her robes and sparked a fire within the brazier. She prayed as she breathed life into the small flame and watched it grow stronger, filling the dark room with light, and banishing the shadows. Kinvara collected a vial from the shelf and poured its silvery, liquid contents into the flames.

“Do you know what I asked the lord to show me in the flames, Lady Melisandre?” Kinvara asked as the flames rose higher in response to the vial contents. “I prayed for a glimpse of Azor Ahai and R’hllor only showed me…”

“Snow,” Melisandre said solemnly. “Jon Snow.” Kinvara nodded.

“An old magic is awakening in the West. Blood magic. Ice magic. Fire magic.” Kinvara stood close to the flames, her face illuminated. “Jon Snow is the union of this magic.”

“How is it that you know so much about the boy?” Melisandre asked, her voice quiet and inquisitive.

“R’hllor has shown me much and more,” Kinvara drew in a deep breath. “Long ago, before the andals came to Westeros, the children of the forest were the keepers of the old gods. Their powers were strong as long as their trees stood. Prophetic dreams, warging… Their powers were vast. After the arrival of the first men, when not waging war against the children, some even laid with the children of the forest. Their offspring carrying with them the diluted powers of their queer old gods. But there is another god in Westeros. You know of whom I speak.” Kinvara walked slowly towards Melisandre.

“The pale blue eyes of death. The great Other.”

“Some of the first men laid with the Others. You know the tale of the Night’s King?” Melisandre nodded.

“It was told to me during my time with the Night’s Watch.”

“And did they tell you who he was?” Melisandre shook her head, her eyes wide. Kinvara laughed.

“His name was Stark, lady Melisandre.”

“Jon Snow…” Lost in a tangle of thought, Melisandre attempted piece it all together, but there was something missing.

“In Jon Snow runs not only the blood of the first men and the children, but something else. Something darker.”

“Ice,” Melisandre said finally. “Ice from the Great Other.” Kinvara nodded.

“And do you know who Jon Snow’s father is?” Kinvara searched for another vial from the shelves and procured a small black one. She emptied its contents into the fire as well. “Look into the fire, Lady Melisandre. Ask R’hllor to show you Jon Snow’s father. To show you Jon’s truth.” Slowly, Melisandre walked to the blazing brazier. Her eyes widened in disbelief. A man of silver hair appeared before her, clad in black plate. At his breast, a three-headed dragon sigil encrusted in blood-red rubies. She looked up from the flames.

“Who is he?”

“His name was Rhaegar Targaryen. Prince of Dragonstone. Heir to the Iron Throne. The blood of the dragon and old Valyria.”

“Valyrian… The King’s blood I sensed... ” Images of horror and gore swam forward in Melisandre’s mind: Slave auctions, blood magic, the Doom. Valyria may have been greatest civilization in the world, but it had been built on the backs of blood magic and slaves. She shook the thought from her head.

“Never has the blood of old Valyria, the blood of the old gods and great Other been combined… Until Jon Snow was born.” Kinvara began to bustle about the room, packing vials and boxes into a large wooden trunk. Melisandre stood motionless. _Azor Ahai._

“It’s time to prepare yourself, Melisandre of Asshai. On the morrow the Fiery Hand sails for Westeros.”


End file.
